Hindsight is a wonderful thing
by Svetlanacat
Summary: It's easier to be wise after the events. When it's too late. Sequel of A friend in need... EPILOGUE
1. Chapter 1

-May I help you, sir ?

-I don't know. Can you bring back the dead ?

-Er... no, sit. I can't do that.

-So, man, I am afraid you can't help me.

-Nobody can do that !

-You are right. Nobody.

He looked at the table, and sneered. It was a mess ! He began to count, but it was difficult. First, he counted twelve. Twelve ? It was okay. But... what was it, after twelve ? Thirteen... Thirteen ? Yes, it must be thirteen. Secondly... were they really twelve ? Because, you know, they moved. He saw one. Then, one second later, they were two. Then, one, again. And they moved treacherously. As long as you stared at them, nothing. But if you let them out of your sight...

He had to be more pragmatic. All he had to do was to take them, one at a time. What he saw was unreliable. He closed his eyes, concentrated himself, and opened them back. What he could grab would be undoubted... or not.

Those damned glasses were still moving. Now, they openly moved. But he would get them. He flashed a glance of hatred at them. They didn't seem to mind. Slowly, imperceptibly, he raised his right hand, and put his hand on the table. He was still staring at them, and those silly glasses didn't notice anything. Suddenly, quick as lightning, he swept them aside.

He tried.

But the move unbalanced him. He awkwardly swayed for a while and heavily fell on the ground, his head hitting the table. He thought that it was a quite miserable and stupid death for an Uncle agent.

The light woke him. A dazzling, hot, burning light. They had beaten him black and blue, kicked him. He could feel the blood gluing his eyes. But amazingly, he hadn't his hands tied. Perhaps they had thought that he was dead ? No, they would never do such a mistake. They were peeping at him. First, he had to know where he was. This time, nobody would come for him. He would have to manage.

He decided to turn his head, as naturally as he could. At the very first move, the said head exploded with pain. He automatically held his right hand to his forehead. It was sticky with blood. He had to clean his eyes. As he tried to get his left hand in his pocket, he felt several twinges, as if he had scratched it on broken glass. Not as if. He was scratching his hand on broken... glass. And then he remembered. Nobody would come for him. He would have to manage.

The sight was... distressing, heartbreaking. The apartment was a mess. The room was a mess. The table was a mess. Covered with glasses. With bottles. Empty. The smell was unbearable. Hard liquors... sweat... blood. He lied on the ground, flat on his stomach, his head turned on the right. A great gash from his cheekbone to his temple was bleeding. He needed help. But there was nothing he could do. Nobody he could wait for. He painfully managed to get down on all fours. He was making a fool of himself, he knew that, but nothing mattered much to him anymore.

-What the hell's going on, here, boy ?

He sat straight on the floor, and turned towards the familiar voice.

-Oh... You... There is nothing to worry about, Mikey. About ... me, anyway.

-You are the master of understatement, Napoleon. But... he wouldn't like it.


	2. Chapter 2

The headache was unbearable, but his bladder refused any compromise. He slowly sat straight and stood up. As expected, the floor was pitching. He could have been aboard his boat... His headache was worsening, and suddenly his stomach started to run riot. Whatever the walls intended to do, he had to hurry... Or it would be a tragic mess... Someone grabbed his ram and helped him in the bathroom. What happened ... would probably become very unpleasant and very shameful memories. Just now, it was simple bliss.

When he woke up, an eternity or two later, he felt ... he didn't know how he felt. Lightheaded, weak, and worn out. Amazingly, it wasn't that unpleasant. The headache had lessened. But the memories came back. He blushed, his cheeks burning with... fever, probably, and ... shame.

-Are you better ? Drink this. It's just water. Slowly.

Mikey had pulled the curtains and the room was bathed with a dim light. Solo drank, savoring the delicious feeling.

-He wouldn't like to see you like that.

Shame instantaneously turned into anger. Solo hissed.

-I don't give a damn about what he thinks !

Alexander Waverly and his preconceived ideas about Thrush...

There was nothing to worry about ! The affair was ended.

« Our Thrush friends never tempt fate. They failed. Period. I am afraid that we'll meet him again, but not now. »

Oh, yes, it was ended... But the enemy hadn't given up. And he had tempted fate.

Waverly had agreed that they needed rest. They had been on leave for two weeks. Time for Illya to move in his new apartment. Time for Napoleon to help him. Precious moments. Moving instants, when Illya put every book, every record, every keepsake back where they belonged.

Illya's new apartment was closer to his own. Illya could have moved in in the same brownstone, but he didn't. Napoleon Solo hadn't argued about that.

Illya Kuryakyn's usual ( and legendary...) self-restraint had been broken. He had warmly and insistently thanked his partner for saving his life. Napoleon had first brushed aside those thanks reminding Illya of their mutual agreement about that : « You save my life, I save yours... Let's stop counting. » And then, he had realized the depth of his friend's gratitude. He had tried to settle the score : Illya had saved his life, three times, at least. He had saved the day... Well , the New York headquarter, and his chief Alexander Waverly... Illya had shyly smiled and squeezed his hand. But he had stopped thanking...

After that, things had carried on as before. Almost as before. Many people had changer their mind about the Russian agent. Everybody seemed anxious to show him their new feelings. Napoleon had teased his friend, and made fun of his embarrassment. But he had noticed, too, that Illya had managed to be more open, more obviously concerned. Well. Very interesting times. Very pleasant ones. Very... short-lived.

Napoleon Solo realized that Mikey was speaking... when the fisherman stopped talking. He sheepishly looked at him, with inquiring eyes. Mikey frowned and repeated.

-I didn't think to Mr Waverly, Napoleon...

The fisherman caught the glass on time.

-I don't give a damn, about what he would have thought, Mikey.

The fisherman shook his head. He spoke slowly, with the soft tone of a mother trying to soothe her child.

-You can bear a grudge against the whole world, Napoleon. But not against Illya.

-I can't ? And why couldn't I ? He... He...

-He died ?

* * *

Alexander Waverly looked at the two agents. He was amazingly relaxed, almost smiling. Very unusual, not really reassuring. He puffed away his pipe and pointed his finger to the two files, on the desk.

-An easy mission, young men. Very appropriate. Mr Solo...

He pushed a file towards the older agent.

-Mr Solo, you'll fly to San Francisco, and contact our correspondent. An important ... and secret meeting is going to be held, and we have been asked to check the security measures...

Napoleon Solo was puzzled. An easy mission... that meant one mission... Waverly puffed away his pipe again.

-Mr Kuryakyn, you'll work with Mr Solo, on this assignment, but before...

He pushed the second file towards the young Russian.

-Before, you are expected at the Survival School. Jules Cutter would like you to give a little speech, or two, and ... well, er... a demonstration of your skills... His young men are quite eager to meet you... especially someone you know well...

Illya Kuryakyn couldn't help chuckling, while Solo wryly smiled This assignment was ... ordinary. Uninteresting. A mission for some rookie agents. At least, he wouldn't have to play the fool fort Cutter's recruits. However, Illya looked quite satisfied with that. Much good may it do you, my friend, he thought.

_Hindsight is a wonderful thing..._

* * *

He had been blamed, of course. He should have reported Simmons' incompetence. He should have taken the affair over. He should have...

The man had listened. Obediently. Respectfully. Then, they had stopped speaking. Then, he had talked. He had argued.

First about Simmons and his self-importance. He couldn't do anything... For Simmons didn't tell him anything !

Secondly... about the complete confidence Thrush had put in him... You blame me ? Who did choose Simmons to run this mission ? Attack is always the best form of defence.

At last, he had argued about his last decision. He couldn't have been of any use... He would have been killed... or seized.

He didn't tell about Solo ...

They had frowned, grimaced, grumbled... and given up. He was to heave a sigh of relief, when someone said.

-We can't let them think that they won. You, you know all the sides of the affair... So you are « the right man in the right place », aren't you ? You'll have to manage to settle the score for us... Yes, I am aware that they have identified you, but don't we get our friend, in there ? I heard that they considered him as an hero... They know you, but they trust him...

The man brightly smiled, swearing deep inside that this one would pay for that... He cursed his luck. He really should have shot Solo, when he had the opportunity to...

Hind sight was a wonderful thing...


	3. Chapter 3

-I don't like that...

Amazed, Illya Kuryakyn looked at his partner. The older agent went on.

-This assignment... is boring. If only we were in charge of it... No, we'll just have to check. .. Boring. A rookie assignment... or an almost retired one !

The Russian chuckled, shaking his head with amusement.

-My friend, you are getting older... You grumble, you mutter, you argue... That's an assignment. At least, it's a safe one !

Napoleon Solo sighed and immersed himself in his file. Ten seconds.

-And you are going to entertain Cutter's recruits ! Are you really enjoying that ?

Illya Kuryakyn's face was now serious.

-Jules Cutter... He helped me, Napoleon. I wouldn't have thought that he could do that for me, but... he did. I owe him much... And I'll be happy to see again Evan Stellon.

Solo rolled his eyes, while his partner devilishly whispered.

-Perhaps... you are jealous, Napoleon ? You haven't been ask to give a demonstration of your skills... If you want, I could...

-Kuryakyn, you live dangerously !

The young Russian gently tapped his arm.

-Napoleon... it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good ! San Francisco is an extraordinary place. I am sure that all the security measures will be okay. We'll have some free time... and you... I guess you'll find one or two cute Californian ladies...

-Because you won't look for one or two cute ladies, among Cutter's recruits, my friend ?

-I... I am a serious man, Napoleon.

-Are you ?

Napoleon Solo bit his lips. He shouldn't have said that, but it just slipped out. Illya didn't pay any attention. Apparently.

* * *

A beautiful town. A wonderful place. Illya was right. San Francisco was all that. But Napoleon Solo was a New Yorker... He had checked what he had to, and he was now waiting for both the beginning of the meeting and his partner's arrival. He had regularly reported to Waverly. The Old Man had listened, muttered and amazingly brushed aside Napoleon's questions about Illya and the Survival School. Amazingly ? Not really... Waverly wasn't a talker. Efficiency first. Illya's achievements were none of his business.

-Is Illya doing a good Job ? Are Cutter's recruits fascinated ?

-Of course. Mr Solo, you told me that... And what if... ? Have you checked... ?

Of course...

Napoleon Solo knew that his young guest had been amazed. Disappointed. Offended, when he had left her in front of her door, with a very discreet kiss. She had expected more. She... he had heard of Napoleon Solo... But... he was a serious man. He leaned out the window and gazed at the landscape. It was almost a living post card. Illya would enjoy it.

Lost in thought, he startled when he heard the beep. He got the communicator out of his pocket.

-Mr Solo ?

-Yes, sir...

Of course... Who else ? Waverly's tone was grim. Not that he was usually fond of a joke, but... Napoleon Solo felt a growing discomfort.

-Mr Solo... It's... I... We...

Oh, Waverly couldn't find his words ? Discomfort turned into fear. It happened once. A few months ago...

Déjà vu... Solo asked harshly.

-What happens, sir ?

-We... we have trouble, Mr Solo.

Trouble ? Say it, old fox. SAY IT !

-Sir ?

Solo's voice, soft and strained, reflected his struggle avoiding to yell at his superior. Waverly's tone was as soft and strained.

-We have lost Mr Kuryakyn.

Napoleon Solo couldn't help chuckling.

-Lost... Illya ? At the Survival School ? It's a naughty joke, sir.

-No, Mr Solo, it isn't.

-On his way back ? Have we any clues ?

Waverly kept silent.

-Sir ? Illya isn't a rookie recruit ! He must have left some traces ! He'll manage to contact us...

-You don't understand, Mr Solo. We have lost him. Really.

-Sir... ?

-Napoleon... he is dead.

* * *

Napoleon Solo couldn't remember the following moments. At first, he must have repeated the same sentence...

-I can't believe it...

Then, he had come back to New York. Still incredulous. Because they were survivors. Illya Kuruakyn was a survivor. He was good at it. He had proved it so many times...

The whole New York headquarteer was abashed. Nobody dared look at him. Speak to him. Step after step, his hope lessened.

A very old Waverly was sitting in his office. The old man himself didn't dare look at him.

Napoleon Solo took a deep breath and tried to control himself.

-What happened, sir ?

-Mr Kuryakyn died, Mr Solo. I ... I thought that you knew it. That's what happened.

Napoleon Solo foamed.

-When ? Where ? Why ? How ? Are you sure...

-Unfortunately... there is no doubt, Mr Solo...

Unfortunately ! Napoleon Solo rushed to the desk and hit the wooden top with his fist.

-He was at the Survival School. It's the safer place I know ! Everything was okay, you told me that. You... told me... the truth ? When ? Where ? How ?

The very old man raised his eyes and looked at his agent. He wasn't impressed. He wasn't angry.

He was sad. Awfully sad.

-Sit down, Mr Solo. It's a long...

-The hell with your chair ! Tell me. Now.

They exchanged a look. Solo gave up. He sat down, although ready to jump again.

-It's a long story...

-Where is he, sir ? If he is dead... I want to see his body. On my own.

-Well, Mr Solo... what we have... isn't exactly a body. But we have clues. Indubitable clues. And witnesses. There is no hope.

-Sir...

No more fury.

-The... the odor alerted some wanderers. They found... they found what I could hardly call a body. Waves... rocks... seagulls... crabs... But we could... identify... Mr Kuryakyn.

-Sir..

He was begging.

-He ... Mr Kuryakyn had been beaten, and... shot Our medical examiner has removed... eleven bullets.

-Eleven bullets ? And... where ?

-In Penobscot bay, near Camden. In Maine.

-Maine ? But Illya was at the Survival School ! It isn't... Sir? Mr Waverly ?

-Well, er... Mr Solo...

-What, sir ? Do you have something to tell me ?

-Mr Kuryakyn... didn't go to the Survival School.

* * *

-You play a dangerous game, Alexander. You could lose both of them...

-I know that, Jules... But I have no choice.

-I'll do what you want, Alexander... But I am not condoning it.

* * *

-He didn't...

-No, he didn't. It was... well. It was a trap, Mr Solo. For the second mole. Simmons ... is dead, thanks to Mr Kury... Simmons is dead. But there is someone else. And we can't afford that. So, we needed a bait. And Mr Kuryakyn... Illya agreed to be ... the bait.

Napoleon Solo choked with fury.

-I asked you... and you told me... that everything was okay ? Everyday ?

-Yes.

-And... you can look at me, eyes in eyes ? When... when did that happened ?

Waverly sighed.

-Probably... Probably the day you left for San Francisco. According the... He disappeared on his way to the airport. And...

-And you did... what ?

Waverly shrugged his shoulders.

-As usual, Mr Solo. We looked for him. Because... it wasn't the plan, you know. We moved heaven and earth...

-And... you didn't tell me ? Why ?

-Because... you had to be protected, Mr Solo. Our enemies have two obvious targets... They have got one. Is it not enough ? Mr Solo... Mr Solo ? Napole...

-Shut up, old fool ! You know that I have always obeyed your orders... I respected you... more than any one else... except for ... my partner. But that is where I draw the line. You... betrayed my trust. I can't work here any longer.

-Napoleon !

-No ! Oh, you know what ? Eleven bullets... the old firing squad. Twelve soldiers. One with blank cartridge... An execution ! They mocked at us... and you... helped them.

* * *

-I had warned you, Alex.

-I had no choice, Jules.

-But we still don't know who is the mole... Will you sacrifice Mr Solo, too ?

-He... he is expendable.


	4. Chapter 4

-What do you think, Mr Kuryakyn ?

The young agent composed his features in a smile. But he didn't fool Alexander Waverly. Illya Kuryakyn would obey orders... However, he was obviously halfhearted.

-If...

Waverly's tone was... unusual.

-If, I could, Mr Kuryakyn... I wouldn't ask you to do that, but...

-But you have no choice, sir.

-I would like to...

-But you haven't. I understand, Mr Waverly.

-But you don't like it...

Eyes in eyes. Alexander Waverly knew well his Russian... and he was quite amazed when he saw him avert his gaze.

Illya Kuryakyn didn't mind playing the bait... Alexander Waverly's plan was precise. Skillfully woven. What bothered him was that this plan included... lies. A delusion. Napoleon Solo was to be kept at a distance. In all the meanings... The proper one : he would be sent in California... And the figurative one... Not a word... He felt Waverly's look and shook his head.

-What I like, or not, sir... doesn't matter.

* * *

He sat on the floor. His new apartment was a delight, with the huge picture windows. The sunset bathed the room with a firework of red, orange, yellow, purple and pink. Once more, Illya Kuryakyn looked for the Rayon Vert. The green beam... When he had mentioned it to his partner, Napoleon had laughed. Then they had talked about Jules Verne's novel, and the meaning of the Rayon Vert... Napoleon had stopped laughing. They had stood, side by side... and waited for the so rare Rayon Vert... Vainly...

-Eventually, my friend, you are kind of a romantic...

-Jules Verne's novels are often about science, Napoleon, and I...

-Chhht, Illya. Look at the stars.

The sky darkened. Illya Kuryakyn stared at the stars... They were so rare. Napoleon had whispered something about that, and of course Illya had fell... no, had jumped in the trap. He had started a patient speech about the city lights... and stopped when he had heard his friend chuckling. He had been teasing him. Of course, he knew...

The warm colours of the sunset were replaced by a silver light : the said city lights, and soon, the moon.

The last weeks had been pleasant one. But Waverly was right. They had to identify the mole... Simmons was one. The first governor, in the jail, was... a poor fool man. His successor was another mole. But there was a third mole. It was extremely dangerous : they would risk a lot if they didn't react... And Illya Kuryakyn shivered, although the warmth of this summer night.

He was, for weeks, now, going ove and over an idea in his mind. A quite uncomfortable idea. More precisely, a frightening idea. And he couldn't talk about it. There was noone... except for... except for one man. The only one who wasn't part of it. The Russian wryly smiled, stood up and took his phone.

* * *

Napoleon Solo sighed with relief. He had packed his case and his bag, and he had some time to have a thought.

He didn't like it.

The last weeks had been pleasant. What happened had cleaned the air, and many people had changed their mind about Illya. Most of them were sincere. And Illya... Illya had changed his mind about them... And it was a good thing. The last few days, however... His self sufficient partner had looked thoughtful. Doubtful. Napoleon Solo was expecting him to tell... Sometimes, Illya began a sentence... and brushed aside, or changed the subject.

Worse. The one who usually muttered about boring assignment, would have foamed about going back to the Survival School... Illya Kuryakyn... was in an amazingly good mood. Quite... enthusiastic. A so easy going partner...

Napoleon Solo didn't feel comfortable with that. Illya... What he had gone through had, in a way, stabilized him. And it was a good thing, too.

But just now... It sounded ... hollow. Illya ... overacted. When he would join him, in San Francisco, they would have to talk.

* * *

Alexander Waverly was anxious, and he didn't like it.

What happened, for the last months, had worried him at the last degree. But his struggle... had one precise objective : a target. He knew for sure that his Russian agent was innocent. In spite of all the difficulties, it was easy to do everything possible.

He had feared that they could fail.

He had feared that he could lose Illya Kuryakyn, Napoleon Solo...

But he knew why and what he feared.

Now, everything was for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Illya Kuryakyn and Napoleon Solo were quite recovered. Mark Slate... was getting better, and the doctors were optimistic.

But Alexander Waverly frowned. He had seen the shadow of a doubt in some blue eyes.

Perhaps, he couldn't fool Illya Kuryakyn anymore.

* * *

-Mikey ? You were not asleep ?

-Illya, boy, I am an old man... not a crying baby !

-Not that old, Mikey...

Mikey's voice was reassuring. Illya Kuryakyn remembered the word he had used about him : family. Yes, Mikey was... family. For the few days they lived side by side, the fisherman had broken through him, through his defences. Deeper than anyone else. Deeper than Alexander Waverly. Even deeper than Napoleon... Illya Kuryakyn could have felt uncomfortable with that. He had felt, every time Napoleon had found out one of his secrets... But... Mikey was family. There was no stake. No judgment.

-Illya ? You... sound troubled, boy. Want to talk about ? If you were here, we could drink a beer on the terrace, looking at the stars. It's a beautiful night !

Typically Mikey...

-The night is beautiful , here, too, Mikey. Mikey, you are right. Something... It's about what happened at your home, in Mousehole, in the jail, and in New York.

The fisherman kept silent.

-They knew where we were. What we were going to do. Always...

-And ? I thought that you got rid of your ... moles ?

-Yes, Mikey. I... shot Simmons. The man of the jail escaped... but we know his face...

-But... are you ind danger ?

-In danger , No... Yes, we are in danger, Mikey. Among all that happened, there are some events that remained... unexplainable. Unexplained

-I guess your Mr Waverly noticed that, and... Illya ?

-I don't know, Mikey. To me, it's an evidence. Neither Mr Waverly, nor Napoleon seem to worry about it...

-To worry about... about what, Illya ?

* * *

Jules Cutter looked through the window. Young men and young women were busying themselves, outside. Some of those recruits were valuable elements. He would work hard on them. The others... the others were trying.

You couldn't come there if you were not good. You couldn't stay there, if you were not among the best. You couldn't survive, as a Section 2 agent, if you were not the best.

Jules Cutter didn't like it. Probably because he was getting old. Older. Too old for the job ?

In a way, it wasn't a good bargain. Uncle agents often lost out on the deal.

An impious thought crossed his mind... Eventually, one could say that Thrush leaders were efficient. More efficient than men like Alexander Waverly. Of course, Uncle agents were good. The best. They won battles. Most of their fights. But... they didn't win the war. And perhaps they never would.

Thrush relied on the sheer number of his agents. They didn't count them. Significant losses were nothing. When the Uncle lost an agent... it always took a tragic turn. A human drama. An economic one.

Alexander Waverly repeated that agents were expendable... Were they ? Was it worth the price ?

* * *

-About... the most obvious mole...

-The... mole ?

-There are things that neither Simmons, neither the new governor could know. However... Trush was obviously aware of them, on time. There is a third mole. You,, Mikey, you could be the mole. You could work for them...

-Well, yes, Illya, you are right. I could...

-But you don't... Napoleon could be the mole..

-And he isn't You, Illya, you could be. But you are not. So...

-Even Stellon... is a young guard. An honest man who has been involved in this affair.

-So, let's eliminate him. Illya, my friend, you are going to frighten me for good.

-I am frightened, Mikey. I am frightened, because if we eliminate Napoleon, Evan, you and me...

-It must be... Mr Cutter or... your Mr Waverly.

-Jules Cutter,, or Alexander Waverly. And that's impossible.


	5. Chapter 5

Illya Kuryakyn sneered. This new serie promised to be quite amusing. The spy's life, in the movies, or in the T.V. Shows, was generally very... unconventional. But this one...

« _You mission, should you decide to accept it..._» Really funny. Those agents had choice. They could refuse the mission. Oh course, they would never do that. But as they could refuse it, they looked more heroic. More heroic than the poor section 2 Uncle agent who obeyed his chief's orders. Period. However, had he the choice, the said poor section 2 Uncle agent would never refuse a mission. So, this serie was eventually realistic.

As he drove towards the airport, the Russian noticed a blue sedan just behind him. Nothing to worry about, but he kept an eye on it. The trafic was heavy, and he couldn't expect to shake it off. After all, he had « babysitters ». « Illyasitters »... April's words.

Mac Reave cursed. Too many cars. Bad timing. They could see Kuryakyn's car, but... they were too far from him. If anything happened... Waverly would hang them high... He hesitated. He could call Kuryakyn and ask him to wait for them... He could just imagine the Russian's ironical grin. Okay, he was a good... a very good agent. A trustworthy agent. But... he was a Russian, and Mac Reave couldn't help having a little trouble with that. And Illya Kuryakyn disappeared on the street corner.

Illya Kuryakyn sighed. The blue sedan was still there, but the « Illyasitters » were out of sight.

* * *

Antonelli and Pengliss were pacing up and down the airport lounge. They looked around. The place was crowded. Bad timing. If Thrush was up to no good... It would be the right place. At least, the guy they had to protect wasn't really an « innocent ». Illya Kuryakyn would be able to manage... if he had to. But Waverly's orders were clear. And if something happened...

« ... now ready for boarding » Pengliss startled. The Russian was to miss his flight. Stupid ! No. Amazing. Abnormal. He got his communicator.

-Mac Reave ? Where the hell are you with Kuryakyn ? The boarding had been ...

-He isn't at the airport ? Pengliss, are you sure ?

-Of course, I am sure ! You were supposed to babysit him on the way to the airport ! What happened ?

-The traffic is... No use. I am going to call the headquarter.

-Waverly will fire us...

* * *

-Alexander ? What happens ?

-Mr Kuryakyn... he disappeared.

-Are you joking, Alex ? It isn't a surprise, is it ?

-Mr Kuryakyn is missing. He disappeared, on the way to the airport.

-I beg your pardon ?

-Mac Reave and Connor were shaken off in the traffic. Antonelli and Pengliss never saw Mr Kuryakyn at the airport.

-Oh, fine... You should send me back those skillful drivers ! And there is no trace of Mr Kuryakyn ? If the trafic was so heavy... he could be...

-No, Jules. We found his car parked beside the pavement, in a close street.

-And ?

-His case. His bag. No traces.

Jules Cutter didn't ask. But Alexander Waverly did

-Who knew, Jules ?

-I knew, you knew, Alexander...

-Mr Kuryakyn, Mr Solo knew.

-And our friend, the « governor », what's his name ?

-Bayle... officially.

-Bayle could have kept a watch on Mr Kuryakyn...

-Many people tried to tail Illya Kuryakyn, Jules. You tried...

Jules Cutter muttered. It wasn't a pleasant memory...

-You are not the mole. I am not the mole. Mr Solo is not the mole. Mr Kuryakyn... is not the mole... But, Alexander, all the recruits knew that Mr Kuryakyn was to come. And I guess that in your Uncle headquarter... Many people knew that Mr Kuryakyn was to go to the Survival School. It wasn't a secret...

-You are just telling me that we have wasted our time...

-And Illya Kuryakyn... Alexander... You... you would tell me, wouldn't you ?

-Tell you... what ?

-Mr Kuryakyn was supposed to be « abducted »in the airport, in the boarding room...

-Yes. First, it would have puzzled Thrush. Secondly, he could have plaid the joker... The mole...

-Yes, Alex. All I want to know is... you wouldn't have thought another plan ?

-Jules !

-Just in case **I** could be the mole... Are you trying to... fool me ?

-Jules !

-Mr Kuryakyn is an experienced and efficient agent. I can hardly believe that someone could abduct him in his car, so quickly, without any trace... So, **you **might have bent the rules...

-Jules, you undervalue me... I trust you, as you trust me...

-Did you call back Mr Solo ?

-Of course not. He must stay in San Francisco. I won't tell him anything...

-He won't like it, Alex.

-What he likes or not doesn't matter.

* * *

Napoleon Solo threw his ID on the receptionist's desk. Furiously. And he stormed out. Outside... outside, the weather was fine. Desperately fine. Sun, warmth... Summer time. He went straight back home, slammed the door, and mechanically set the alarm.

The apartment was comfortable, warm, but with style. Napoleon Solo stared blankly at the fireplace. He wouldn't lit the fire. He did, usually, even when it wasn't useful... because his friend liked it so much. Of course, it had been first a subject of astonishment... The young Russian agent, Illya Kuryakyn, freshly partnered with the CEA, wasn't really impressed by his superior. Napoleon Solo had asked him for dinner, as he wanted to give him a warm welcome. The young man had looked around, raised an eyebrow, and studied the books, on the shelves. Then, he had turned towards the senior agent, with a shy... devilishly shy smile.

-You have a fireplace? In your apartment ? But you have central heating... What use... ?

-Oh, my friend, it's just American decadence... I have a fireplace, because I like to see the flames, to hear their crackling, in the hearth... Sometimes, I light the fire... in Summer, just for my pleasure...

Just a little challenging, he peeped at the Russian with a smirk... Illya Kuryakyn ignored the teasing.

-Fireplace is the heart of a Russian home. Warmth, safety, light... family. It's useful, of course, and you have to fell timber... But it's so fascinating... I like fireplace. It reminds me... home...

An amazing speech... The older agent instinctively had known that he must go on.

-Would a Russian drink vodka in front of a decadent American fireplace ?

-A... Russian vodka... ?

When Illya had moved in his new apartment, Napoleon Solo had chuckled, at the sight of ... the fireplace...

-Decadent, Illya, you are really decadent !

-Would an American drink whisky in front of a decadent Russian fireplace ?

-A... Scottish whisky ?

But that was the past. It would never happen again. Solo shivered, as he realized that he would probably be asked to sort Illya's properties. Again. As he had done, months ago. This time, it would be for good. No more hope. Waverly's tone, Waverly's features, Waverly's eyes didn't lie.

Illya wasn't a prisoner. He was... gone.

But he wouldn't. He couldn't.

Someone else would have to do it.

Who... ?

Which of Illya's friends... ?

A face and a name crossed his mind.

Mikey.

The fisherman was in Atlantic Highlands, at his son's home, for a few weeks... They had his number... just in case...

When he hung up the phone, he realized how silent the apartment was. Mikey... Mikey had been taken aback. He have a liking for Napoleon. He really ... liked Illya... as a sort of son. After some long seconds, he had just said... « I am coming, boy... »

Napoleon Solo eventually lit the fire. Then, methodically, he settled glasses and bottles on the wooden table. He had tried, at the beginning, to drink the young Russian under the table... He couldn't help sadly chuckling at this memory. This night, he would try again... To drink a ghost under the table.

* * *

When he regained consciousness, Illya Kuryakyn knew instantaneously where he was... A very small space, moving, tossing him, at every bump. A car trunk. He felt sick... sick to his stomach. He was choking. He had very few air, a dusty, foul air. Stinking smell. Nauseous. He struggled against the sickness... If he vomited... A bounce made him roll, and his head violently hit something... He lost the fight. The car stopped. Someone opened the trunk.

-Tststs... Behave yourself, Mr Kuryakyn ! You... you are a hell of a mess. Disgusting... Well, at least, you'll have some water to wash yourself... An ocean of water.


	6. Chapter 6

Napoleon Solo admitted.

-Yes.

He peeked at the fisherman, expecting a burst of anger. Mikey was just there. Silent. Frowning. With concern.

-Yes.

There was nothing in his face that could allow him to guess Mikey's thought. That went on Solo's nerves. He was looking for a support : some one who would be as desperate as he was. Someone ... someone he would have to comfort... Someone, at least, to fight against. All he had was... a wall.

-I thought you liked him. But you look so emotionless. Why did you come here ?

The haunted look, in the dark haired agent's eyes was so unusual. Mikey kept silent. Napoleon Solo violently cursed, and headed to the last bottle. A strong hand grabbed him, and pushed him back in the couch.

-That's enough ! Are you such a coward ? If you want to die, choose a less degrading way ! You... you are furious with your superior, with me, with... Illya... And I think that you are mostly furious with yourself ! Why ?

-He... Waverly gave him a secret assignment. A typical Waverly's plan. And he didn't say a word ! We talked about San Francisco, about Cutter and the Survival School... and he didn't tell me anything. He died, but he had told me, I could have watched his back. So, yes, I am furious with him ! Rightly !

Solo looked at Mikey and frowned : the fisherman's face was amazed... strangely amazed. Solo's gaze burned through him, but it didn't impressed Mikey much.

-Mikey ?

The fisherman rubbed his chin.

-He just wanted... to protect you. As Mr Waverly, I think.

-To... protect me ? Are you kidding ? Am I a poor little innocent, unable to look after himself ?

Then, he realized.

-Mikey ? You don't guess... you... you say it for certain...

The fisherman deeply breathed. No way...

-Yes, Napoleon. I know it for sure.

Solo clenched his fists.

-Would you explain ?

-Illya called me, the night before... his...

-Before his death. Say it !

-He worried about the assignment, Napoleon. He had to delude you, and it didn't please him.

-He had to ... ? How interesting !

Mikey sighed.

-I thought that you were his closest friend ? Illya... had to obey Waverly's orders. .. But... for the first time, he... doubted.

-Illya ? Doubts ? About Waverly's orders ?

-About Uncle. He told me that there was what you call a mole... We talked about things that happened in Mousehole... And all he had... was a list. A short, very short list.

Napoleon Solo felt unease.

-A list ?

-Six names. Six possible traitors...

-Six ?

-I was on the list...

-Mikey, it's ridiculous.

-You were. Evan Stellon was. And Jules Cutter. And Alexander Waverly... And Illya.

-It's stupid ! None of us...

Napoleon Solo stopped talking, and looked at the fisherman with horror.

-None of us ? Exactly Illya's conclusion.

-But Waverly's plan didn't go according to plan...

-Illya's plan...

* * *

The driver leaned over the trunk, and shook the limp body. He grumbled : the Russian was unconscious, soiled... and he would have to be carried out. The man came back to his seat and took an old blanket. He didn't intend to ruin his clothes. All he had to do was to grab the Uncle agent, to kill him, and to throw him down the rocks. He got his gun, smiling as he thought that he was going to eliminate one of the most dangerous Uncle agents... He sneered. The stupid Russian had made things simple : much to his surprise, he had saw him turn on the right, and go along a small street. First he had thought that the man had noticed the tail. He had laid a bet, gone straight forward till the next street, turned and gone back up the way. The Russian stood beside his car., looking back. A child's play ! Two sleep darts, and the stupid Uncle agent was in the trunk. The other Uncle agents would be mad... The man stretched his arms, and watched at the beautiful landscape... Eventually, a nice place to die. His superior would be satisfied : some day, tomorrow, in one week, one month... some day, the sea would abandon Kuryakyn's body somewhere on this rocky coast...

Really a beautiful place to die...

* * *

There was a hush when Alexander Waverly crossed the hall. Rumour had it that Napoleon Solo had lost his temper, and yelled at the Old Man. That he had resigned. Another rumour had it that the Old Man had sacked him. Waverly had his Sphinx-like face. He got to his office, nodded at his secretary, and shut the door behind him. Eventually, Thrush won the battle. Illya Kuryakyn died, Napoleon Solo...

* * *

-Illya's plan ? What do you mean, Illya's plan ?

The fisherman cleared his throat.

-Illya trusts Mr Waverl..

-Trusted.

-Illya... trusted Mr Waverly. But he wanted to...

-To be sure.

-He wanted to watch the mole. He thought that the man had to be close to ...

-Waverly.

-To one of us. You mistake, Napoleon. Illya trusts Mr Waverly. For dear life. As he trusts you.

-Trusted.

-He planned to obey Waverly's orders, in a roundabout way. He decided to disappear. As if he had been trapped. Really trapped.

-The very idea ! He should have told me...

-And you would have disagreed.

-And he would be alive.

* * *

To be a mole was always an exciting challenge. But in his case, it was more than that. For some years, he had dug his gallery. Obscure. Humble. Thrush had almost forgotten him. Until a few months before. Despite his efforts, the plot had failed. Simmons had been shot. Bayle... Bayle had survived, and taken advantage of what was now known as « Simmons' failure ». Bayle was ambitious. Opportunist. A manipulator. Someone who made use of you, when he needed. As long as he needed. Then... The mole smiled. He was the ace up to Bayle's sleeve... but he was powerful. More powerful than Bayle. He worked for... Thrush. Sometimes. For the Uncle. Often. For ... himself. Always.

* * *

_The young Russian stood a few steps aside, covered with various dressings.. He didn't lower his blue eyes. Alexander Waverly looked daggers at him, but he clearly didn't mind._

_-You endangered the mission, Mr Kuryakyn._

_Napoleon Solo cut in._

_-Illya brought back the device, sir. He succeeded..._

_-That's none of your business, Mr Solo._

_-But, sir, Mr Kuryakyn gave the mission priority. He didn't endang..._

_-Mr Solo !_

_The CEA bit his lips. If he went on, Waverly would ask him to get out._

_-You...disobeyed our rules, Mr Kuryakyn._

_-I fulfilled the assignment, sir._

_-You did. And after that, you went back in the house. It was going to be blasted, but you went back._

_-I had to._

_-You had to ? You had to risk your life ?_

_Illya Kuryakyn smiled. Napoleon Solo couldn't help shivering. The Russian must be out of his mind._

_-The child was in the house._

_-The... child ?_

_-Yes, sir. Feather's daughter._

_-Feather's daughter ?_

_-His men refused to go..._

_-The Thrush leader's daughter was in the house. His men refused to look for her, so an Uncle agent did the job ? How interesting, Mr Kuryakyn _!

_-She is seven years old._

_-Mr Kuryakyn... Uncle's investment in your training was important. If you see what I mean ?_

_-A seven years old child is an innocent? Whoever is her father. Protect the innocent is our duty._

_This young blond Russian didn't give up. Waverly severely frowned._

_-So, you would do it again ?_

_-All other things being equal ? Yes, sir, I would._

At this moment, Waverly had known for sure that he had been right. The Russian agent had a strong sense of values.

He had first fulfilled the mission/

And ... he acted according them.

He had risked his life, to save an innocent.

And... he had got a helluva nerve. The Old Man sadly smiled : a few days later, he had called him in his office... about his safe escape route... And now, this young man... died. Waverly wasn't to be blamed, but... it wasn't a consolation...

Waverly startled, hearing the beep of his communicator.

-Mr Waverly ?


	7. Chapter 7

-Kuryakyn, it's a pity you are unconscious...

But he wouldn't waste time waking up... He caught the second gun and checked again. Six bullets in this one ; five in the other. Bayle's idea... He wasn't sure of the meaning of all that stuff. According to him, one bullet... But, well, orders were orders. He had to shoot eleven bullets. So, he would do. Thinking of a ritual, he had just asked about how... where he had to shoot the leven bullets : one in the head, one in... Bayle had cut him out. « Just like a firing squad. » The man sneered and shouted.

-And... eleven. Eleven bullets for one man, Mr Kuryakyn !

He slid the guns in his belt and sighed. First, the dirty job. The blanket.

This landscape was really beautiful. Peaceful. Except for the smell. The disgusting smell... And his head exploded.

* * *

Alexander Waverly frowned. The voice was ... familiar, but the man spoke in a suppressed tome. The voice of some one who tried to hide himself.

-Yes ?

-Evan Stellon, sir.

Oh, yes, the young Stellon...

-Yes, Mr Stellon, what happens ?

The young man, obviously shocked, couldn't help stammering.

-I... I... It's... Sir, something is wrong, here. It's really important, and...

-Mr Stellon ? If anything is wrong, you must tell Mr Cutter ! He'll...

-Oh, no, sir. I... I can't tell him anything. Sir, you know, I can't speak to him ab...

-Mr Stellon ? Stellon ? STELLON ?

Nothing. Nobody. The communicator was... mute.

Alexander Waverly didn't hesitate. He immediately called the only man he could : Jules Cutter himself. No vain explanation. Just action. And he was waiting for Cutter's report.

-Alexander...

-Jules ? Where is Mr Stellon ?

-That's the point, Alex. Mr Stellon... isn't here.

-What do you mean, Jules ? « Mr Stellon isn't here ! » Of course, he is ! He must be !

Stellon had disappeared. No trace. Except for a communicator, on the ground. No evidence of a fight.

Stellon had disappeared, as Illya Kuryakyn did. With a slight difference... Illya Kuryakyn had been abducted in New York... Evan Stellon had been abducted in the safest place in the world : the Survival School.

Once, it happened ... And it wouldn't happen again. Jules Cutter's words.

But now, according to Cutter's report, Evan Stellon had disappeared from the out of the way island. The young, skilled, honest recruit Evan Stellon. Abducted in the protected, observed Survival School. Nobody could come in. Nobody could come out...

According to Cutter's report... Alexander Waverly couldn't help shivering. Jules Cutter was his friend. More. A man he trusted for dear life. But now, all he could think was « according to Cutter's report ». Because Stellon had called him. Not Cutter. Because Stellon had said that he couldn't speak to Cutter about... About what ? Why couldn't he speak to Cutter ? Where was Stellon ?

* * *

Mikey was gone. Napoleon Solo was still angry, but his anger rightly aimed at his enemy. The enemy. Not at Illya. Not at Alexander Waverly. Not at... himself. He would have time, after, to mourn his friend. He would have time, after, to argue with Waverly. He would have time, after, to cope with his own regrets. What happened in Mousehole... the amazing knot between them... Friendship ? Yes, you could name it that way. However, it was too late. It was definitively too late...

Revenge wasn't the usual policiy for Uncle agents. Alexander waverly would never condone vengeance. What you don't know don't bother you... napoleon Solo needed help. He knew that for sure. As he had needed Mikey's help. Uncle was his only hope. Alexander Waverly was the only man he could count on. He would have to apologize...

Someone knocked at the door... Solo jumped on his gun. The door was closed, the alarm set. Mikey had reproached him for his recklessness.

-People can just walk in, Napoleon !

-If I hadn't done that, you would still be outside !

-Anyway...

The knock was more and more insistent. A fmiliar voice.

-Mr Solo ? Would you please open that door ?

Alexander Waverly himself ? Napoleon Solo looked around : everything was okay.

-Sir ?

Waverly motioned his bodyguards to stay outside.

-Mr Solo, we have to talk.

Napoleon Solo cleared his throat and began.

-Si, I wanted to tell you that... I am really sorry about ...

-Don't waste time, Mr Solo. You have recently made your position clear. Let's consider that the necessary apologize have been offered and accepted. Mr Stellon disappeared.

Napoleon Solo stared at his superior. The Old Man heavily sat in the armchair, and his pale look went through his agent who kept silent, puzzled.

-Mr Stellon called me from the Survival School, about... I don't know what, Mr Solo. We have been interrupted. Mr Stellon... disappeared.

-That's impossible, sir. The Survival School is...

-A safe place. However, according to Mr Cutter's report, Mr Stellon isn't in the island. So, I can say that he disappeared. What it means, Mr Solo, is quite frightening : the enemy has abducted a young recruit, in the safest place I know.

-Nobody can get in the Survival School...

-People could have said that nobody could get in my office, at the headquarter... Simmons did. The other mole...

-It's impossible, sir.

-It happened, Mr Solo.

* * *

Nine... Ten... Eleven. He was exhausted. He had manhandled his unconscious victim. Perhaps an already dead body. But he had to shoot his eleven bullets. Then, he would have to throw his down the rocks.

* * *

-Jules Cutter must be mad... What does he say about it ?

-What does Mr Cutter say about it ? It isn't very important, Mr Solo. No, the problem, the real problem is...

Alexander Waverly looked older. Napoleon Solo had already seen him like that. Twice... This thought made him wince.

-Sir ?

-Evan Stellon wanted to tell me that something was wrong. Wrong at the Survival School. And that he couldn't speak to Jules Cutter. He obviously didn't want to talk to him, Mr Solo.

-Obviously ?...

-His own words, Mr Solo. « I can't speak to Mr Cutter about... » Then, silence.

Abashed. Taken aback. Open-mouthed, Napoleon Solo couldn't articulate a word.

-I take it that you understand the... implications.

Still chocked, the agent shook his head with disbelief.

-No, sir, it's impossible. Whatever happened... I know for sure that Jules Cutter isn't part of it. Remember : he ... helped Illya. He risked his life. Recently, we went through so many... You can't imagine that, Mr Waverly.

Waverly shrugged his shoulders : of course, he couldn't... he shouldn't...

-They... they are trying again, sir. They want you to have doubts about Jules Cutter. As they did with... Illya.

-Yes, Mr Solo. It's a new ewample of their tricks. Probably.

_I hope it is_.

-Your friend, the fisherman, has to be protected. But I won't give any order. You, Mr Solo, you'll choose men. You'll send them... and you won't tell me anything about that.

-But, why, sir ?

-Who knows, Mr Solo ...


	8. Chapter 8

-Those men... Are they...?

-Mr Solo, there is a traitor, a mole... Only one... He is dangerous, powerful, because ... unknown. But ... the Uncle is still the Uncle. We can't suspect everybody. We mustn't. Those men are... ordinary body guards. They are honest men. They won't say a word about my presence here. Unless... I ask them to do it... And I'll ask them, Mr Solo. Because you have to come back, as our CEA. We need you... and you need us.

-I don't understand...

-Nobody knows for sure what happened in my office, Mr Solo. The rumour... is only a rumour. The Number One, Section One had a confidential meeting with his CEA. Period. I am going to come back to the headquarter. You'll join us tomorrow, as usual. See at Mikey's safety, for the moment.

* * *

The limp body bounced off the rocks, and ended in the water. Illya Kuryakyn felt on his knees, panting. He didn't pay attention to the sight, trying to concentrate on building up his strength again. He had to reach the beach, to clean himself. Then, he would put on the man's clothes and... make up his mind... He thoughtfully rubbed his naked finger... His ring was now somewhere, in the foaming water... So was his gold chain...

* * *

Napoleon Solo felt hollow. What had he been hoping ? When Waverly had come in, he had just thought that perhaps... it was a new trick. That ... Illya was somewhere, alive.

But he wasn't. As he was leaving, Alexander Waverly had slid his hand in his pocket and handed him an envelop.

-I... I think he would have liked you to... have it.

Napoleon looked at it at if it was a venomous snake. Waverly had let it on the table. Inside... a gold ring. A gold chain.

* * *

Though the sun was bright, Illya Kuryakyn was shivering. His teeth were shattering. The water was so cold... Although, he let the waves wash him. Clean him of that dirt. Of that foul smell.

_He had passed out, more or less. When the man opened the trunk, he felt the fresh air on his skin, blowing away the stink. Of course, he remained absolutely still. Looking as dead as he could..._

_The man went back to the car, and he could take ravenous breathes. The man was a talker... The Russian managed to get out the trunk, with a wheel brace. He staggered, trying to stay against the wind. When the man smelled him... he was already dead_.

After, he had dressed him with his own dirty clothes. He had put his ring on the man's finger. His chain around his neck. He had stood, only dressed in his briefs. And he had started shivering. And he had shivered as he drove. Shivered on the beach. And he was shivering, as water and foam washed him.

* * *

The Uncle... rustled. As Napoleon Solo walked towards his office, he could hear this amazing sound : not really voices. No real words. Everybody apparently acted as if nothing had happened. But everybody peeped at the Old Man... and at him when they met. Expecting ... something. As soon as people thought they were beyond earshot, they began to rustle. To ... buzz. That was the noise : buzzzzz. It could have been funny... April was waiting for him, leaning back against the wall. When she saw him, she sighed with obvious relief.

-Napoleon ? I am so happy to see you...

Napoleon Solo looked at her inquiringly.

-April ? I am glad to see you, to, but... Do you need some help ?

April Dancer frowned. She knew Napoleon Solo well. He wasn't playing fair. Something worried her, and she couldn't point it.

-We have to talk, I think.

-Yes, of course. Come in, April. How is Mark ?

-He is doing well, Napoleon. He asked about you. And about ... Illya. I don't dare tell him...

-You'll have to. It's reality. We have to face it. Illya... is dead.

April Dancer winced. She was puzzled. Of course, the CEA couldn't openly break down and cry... However, they were alone. She knew the deepness of their friendship... And he was so evasive... so indifferent. « Illya... is dead. ». Period. She stared at him, tried to read something in his eyes. All emotions were shut down. He acted so casually. She burst out.

-Napoleon ! What happens ? Illya is... was your best friend. He is dead... and you ... don't mind ? You should be eager to find... to... to investigate...

-As you said, April : Illya was my best friend, and he is dead. Of course, we are investigating. Of course, we are « eager » to find who shot him.

-I don't talk about « we », Napoleon. I talk about **you.** You are emotionless... So different...

Napoleon Solo sighed.

-April, all of us know that we risk our skin, every day. That's the job. You have to accept it. I... I acknowledged that. You have to.

-And what about the clash between you and Waverly ? Everybody talk about it. You... You slammed the door and...

-And what ? They talk ! You tittle-tattle ! Nothing happened. Just a draft...

April looked daggers at him.

-A... draft ? Are you kidding, Napoleon ?

Someone knocked , and came in straight. The Old Man...

-Mr Solo ? Oh, Miss Dancer, I heard that Mr Slate was doing well. Mr Solo, let's have lunch. Miss Dancer, excuse us for leaving you.

-See you later, April.

And the two men went out, leaving an open-mouthed April in the office.

A tricky situation. Alexander Waverly and Napoleon Solo were obviously on good terms... Obviously.

Life went on. With new assignments. With new enemies. Without Illya Kuryakyn. Who cared ? She cared.

* * *

Eidetic memory was an asset. As he parked the car behind the hedge, Illya Kuryakyn bitterly smiled. He had left the beach, found where he was. The Uncle had some « safe houses ». In various places... Illya Kuryakyn had watched the list. Just in case.

This one wasn't a big house, but it was fitted out. That meant hot shower, food, bed, clothes .. Time to rest. To recover. He knew that he should have got rid of the car, but he needed it. And he was still shivering.

* * *

Usually, when one worries about something, he can seek a relative's or a friend's advice. Concerning a section two agent, he or... she could seek Waverly's advice. His or ... her partner's advice... But she couldn't. Not that she suspected Alexander Waverly or Napoleon Solo... Not really. They were just ... different. Unpredictable.

* * *

Illya Kuryakyn lied on the bed, huddled up under the blankets, trying to warm up. He knew that it wasn't cold, but he was still shivering. He cursed the damn Thrush drug. For the last days, he had just been able to sleep, to eat some soup. He forced himself to go out by the sun. Today, it was rainy. No stroll. Time to think. Time to make his mind.

He was getting better.

The first night, nightmares had let him exhausted. He was in the cell. The white cell. With the dazzling light. Alone. Lost. His friends freed him. And he was again in the cell, and again... again... He didn't dare open his eyes. And he had heard the birds, outside. He wasn't in the white cell. The only light that bathed the room was the dawn.

He was alone. He was lost, in a way. But he was free, and a thought insidiously crossed his mind. A ... temptation. He was ... dead. Thrush would believe he was. And... Uncle would, too. He could go away. He could put his life back. He could think up a new existence. He was resourceful. He knew all the tricks.

A real life. A normal life. A family. Children.

An opportunity.

He would draw a line under his past. Turn his back on this world.

Safety. Happiness. Wonderland.

Regret.

Remorse.

Emptiness.

He wouldn't be able to cope with memories. His friend's face. His friend's voice.

His friend's safety. His... duty.

He was getting better. He felt warmer, less dizzy. He had to « go back home », as Napoleon would say. He slid his hand in his pocket, and got out his communicator.

* * *

-Miss Dancer looked quite angry, Mr Solo... She won't let it go, you know that.

-I'll have to manage.

-You trust her, don't you ? Mr Solo ?

-Yes, I do...

-She could help you. What about Mikey ?

-Everything is okay. He'll stay at his son's home. It's easier for us to make him safe there.

-That's enough, Mr Solo.

-It's ridiculous, sir. You are not the mole, so...

-Of course, I am not, Napoleon. But our enemy ... knows many things... that he shouldn't. We don't know how. And he'll try again to arouse suspicion. « Divide et impera. ». We have to work together. We have to be confident. You took care of Mikey ? That's all I need to know.

As he was back home, Napoleon Solo sat down , lost in thought. Waverly's plan was ... waiting. The mole would be forced to play first. He was expecting reaction, investigation. They didn't really react. They didn't really investigate. He was waiting for the ball. They let it in the bag. He would have to come and to take it... It was clever, but frustrating. It let time to think. Time to remember. Time to mourn.


	9. Chapter 9

His communicator beeped.

-Napoleon ?

Oh... April...

-Yes, April ?

-We have to talk, Napoleon. I... I am downstairs.

-Okay, April, I am waiting for you...

The two agents stood, face to face. April looked determined. Napoleon Solo motioned her to sit down.

-Do you want some tea ? Coffee ? Anything else ?

-I am not really here for a ... tea party, Napoleon. I want you to be ... honest. What is this ?

The young woman took the ring and the chain which were left on the coffee table.

-Illya's ring. And his chain.

He spoke in a neutral tone.

-Waverly thought I have to get it...

-Of course, Napoleon ! You have to ! Illya would have liked ...

-Enough ! Sorry, April. I don't want to hear about what Illya would have liked or not. If ... If you wish, you can take them, as ... keepsakes...

She ruthlessly slapped him. He winced, but went on.

-They found the chain... not the medal...

-Napoleon... you play a dangerous game... But you don't fool me : Illya and you... you were...

-Partners, April, as Mark and you. I ... have lost my partner, as you might have lost yours. That's a lesson you have to...

She slapped him again, grabbed the ring and the chain, and threw at his face. Napoleon Solo didn't move. He was staring at her.

* * *

Illya Kuryakyn woke up. Violent spasms and fits of coughing shook his body. He tried to wrapped himself in the old blanket. The dilapidated cabin was dank. It had been a safe house, a long, long time ago. It had been abandoned. Left to hunters and fishermen, apparently. He had found old biscuits. Water in a tank, outside. He wasn't getting better. Far from it. In his dream, he was going to do something important... but what ? He couldn't remember.

* * *

All went according to plan. Kuryakyn's death and Stellon's missing had aroused suspicion. One thing worried him... a bit. His man hadn't reported. However, Kuryakyn's body had been found... The next step was to get rid of Napoleon Solo. One way or ... another.

* * *

Napoleon Solo was staring at April Dancer. He saw her turn and leave, without a word. The door slammed. « She could help you... » No, she couldn't. He picked up the ring and the chain, and slid them in his pocket. He didn't need any keepsake. He had memories, and they were painful enough. He had said that he understood ? It was wrong. He didn't. He knew Illya. No, he... he thought he knew him. The Illya he knew, the Illya he trusted... would have told him... about Waverly's plan. **He** would have told him !

Liar ! A little voice whispered. You are a liar. If Waverly had asked you to do something, with the aim of protecting Illya, you would have done it. And you wouldn't have told him. Because... he wouldn't have agreed... You can't bear him a grudge. He did exactly what you would have done. You know that.

Yes, he knew.

* * *

The Russian staggered towards the door. It was raining, and a strong wind shook the trees. There was no mirror, and he didn't really know what he was looking like... But he could guess... Though he was still shivering, he felt sweat running down on his cheeks. Or was it tears ? He slid his hand in his pocket, to get something... No handkerchief, of course. Just... a medal. Of course... his medal. He had left the chain. Not the medal. And there was something else... Illya Kuryakyn burst into bitter laughter, looking at the communicator he held. The Thrush drug hadn't kill him. It had just... made him look foolish... Fever, hallucination, and... silliness. Napoleon would mock at him for years with that. Napoleon... He must be back in New York... All he had to do was to call him. If only things would stop turning and rolling around him. He leaned against the wooden wall, and slid along down to the ground. The wind blew the rain on him, but it didn't really matter. He tried to concentrate on the cylindrical object he held.

* * *

The communicator beep again. Solo impatiently grabbed it and barked.

-What again ?

And time stopped. The voice whispered. So faintly. So weakly. Although so ... well known.

-You'll...be... mad... at me... later... Napol...eon...

Napoleon Solo spoke... without thinking. He knew better. If he thought, he would have to acknowledge his insanity.

-I am not mad at you ! Illya ! Where are you ? Illya ? Illya, for God's sake ! Answer me !

Silence.

-Illya !

An horrified voice yelled.

-Napoleon ! You...

-Oh, please, April, shut up !

-You... are not... very ... civil... with a... lady... Napoleon.

-Where are you ? Don't dare and pass out now, Illya ! Tell me, that's an order !

April Dancer stood at the entrance, abashed. Napoleon Solo, the CEA, was shouting at his communicator... and he clearly believed that he was talking to his partner. She had been right. She knew that she couldn't let him alone.

-Hold tight, Illya ! Don't dare and give up, partner mine, or I'll fire you !

Napoleon Solo looked at April Dancer and handed her the communicator.

-Talk to him. I pack up some necessities.

Aplril Dancer stared at the communicator. Napoleon was out of his mind. He craned out the bedroom.

-Talk to him !

She hissed a shy « Illya ? », to satisfy Napoleon, and nearly jumped out of her skin, as she heard an unexpected answer.

-April ? I... am sor...ry. Napol...eon is a... boor..

She was laughing and crying, altogether.

-Oh, yes, he is, Illya. And you'll have to teach him some manners ! Illya... How are you doing ?

* * *

The Russian awkwardly stood up and came back in the cabin. He knew that he would have to wait. But his friends were on their way to take him back. They would fly to Portland, then they'd drive towards him. Eventually, he was getting... better.

* * *

-We should call our correspondent, Napoleon. They would be sooner ...

-No, April, we can't do that. If Illya had been in mortal danger, we wouldn't have any choice. But, as he can wait for us...

-Can he, really ? Napoleon, he looked exhausted, so weak. He coughed...

-I know, April, but... he'll survive, and he is safer... Oh, don't look at me like that. We have to talk. You'll understand.

* * *

Jules Cutter knew Alexander Waverly, and he knew the man's sense of duty. He thought Waverly knew him, too.

-Alexander, no way. My duty is here. I can't leave the School now. If you remember, one of my recruit has been abducted. Right here.

-I am perfectly aware of that, Jules, but I want you to go to New York. I need you at the Headquarter, and don't argue.

-No, Alexander, no.

-You don't have any choice, Jules. I think... I am sure that the Survival School will be safer, if you leave it.

-Old fool...

-They... they killed Mr Kuryakyn. They got Mr Stellon, Jules. Mr Solo could be the next. I could be. You could be... We don't know who is our enemy...We have to face him together. Do you hear of Horatius, Jules ?

-Spare me your mythological allusions !

-Horatius defeated three enemies ; he succeeded because he took advantage of their weakness, by separating them. Jules, you are going to join me.

-Okay, Alex. I'll come, as soon as possible.

-No, Jules. You'll come... immediately.

* * *

-When will you call Mr Waverly, Napoleon ? He should be told about Illya. He cares a lot about him.

Napoleon Solo carefully drove on the narrow road. Darkness didn't make thing easy.

-Napoleon ?

-Of course, we'll call him, but first, let's find Illya. Speaking of that...

Solo pointed his chin at the communicator.

-Illya ? Illya ? Answer, please. Illya !

April Dancer shook her head.

-Try again !

-Illya ! Do you hear me ? Speak to me. ILLYA !

The answer came, at last.

-Yes... I... hear you. Where are you ?

Napoleon Solo grabbed the communicator.

-Illya, we must be very close. Can you go out, and look around ? You'll probably see soon our headlights. Illya ?

-I... understand, Napoleon. Wait...

An eternity later, they heard something like a chuckle.

-I think ...I see you...Flash your headlights ! ...Yes, here you are !... Now... look.

Napoleon Solo and April Dancer saw headlights, just in front of them.

-Yes, Illya, yes...


	10. Chapter 10

Jules Cutter muttered. He knew that Alexander Waverly was right. However, he hadn't to like it. Since Stellon's disappearance, there was a bit of an atmosphere in the School. A mix of guilt and fear. Barely perceptible, but real. Waverly was right : he probably was the next target. But what would his men, his recruits, think of him ? The young Stellon was a nice guy, and he would be... have been ?... a good agent.

* * *

-Illya !

Napoleon jumped out the car and ran towards the other car. His partner leaned back on the seat, eyes closed. The older agent thought his friend had passed out, but the blue eyes opened, and Illya faintly smiled.

-You were ...nearly ...late, my friend.

Napoleon Solo knew better than to answer. He looked at the Russian with an air of dismay.

-Get out of this car and let's take shelter from the rain !

Illya Kuryakyn shook his head. The effort had left him drained of strength, and he wouldn't stand up and walk on his own. Napoleon Solo slipped his arm under his friend's shoulder, and helped him to the dilapidated cabin. April Dancer joined them with the bag. She hugged the Russian, still leaning on his partner for support.

-Illya, I knew it. I ... couldn't believe that you were dead.

-This... came very... close.

-Illya ! You are shivering ! Those clothes are drenched !

She helped him to undress, and to put on a dry sweater. She was to throw away the soaked jacket, when the Russian hissed.

-No, please... April... In the pocket...

She groped in the pocket and got out the medal. Without a word, but an ironical smile, she slid it in her own pocket. Napoleon Solo averted his look.

-We can't stay here, Napoleon. Illya needs...

-I am fine...

And the Russian was shaken again by a coughing fit.

-Just what we can see ! Let's go. I... I know a place.

-The car...

-What about the car, Illya ? We'll leave it there, and...

-No !... we must... destroy ... it... If someone ... finds it... they'll know...

He was right. Illya Kuryakyn was officially dead. They could take advantage of that.

* * *

Alexander Waverly thoughfully read the reports. His secretary knocked and came in.

-Mr Waverly ? We ... we'll have to organize something for Ill... Mr Kuryakyn, and...

Waverly frowned and sighed. Yes, he had to look to that... He nodded at her.

-I'll see at it. Can you call Mr Solo ? I have to talk to him.

-But... Mr Solo isn't here, sir.

-What do you mean, « Mr Solo isn't here. » ? He isn't on any assignment !

-Er... I don't know, sir, but Mr Solo didn't come, this morning.

-Did he call ?

-Er... No, sir...

Waverly motioned her to go out. He took his communicator. No answer.

* * *

-Napoleon... you should... answer.

-Later, my friend, later.

The car was now down the rocky slope. April get in the sedan, panting.

-And now, Napoleon ? Where are we going ? Oh, that's your communicator ! You should answer !

-Later.

-But it must be Mr Waverly !

-Probably.

Napoleon Solo still bore a little grudge against his superior... and he was determined to enjoy this little revenge... Of course, he would answer. But the Old Man could wait one or two hours... Illya needed some real rest, in a bed.

-Napoleon...

A cold hand grabbed his wrist. His partner was lying on the seat, still shivering, despite of the heat. At least, the coughing fits had almost ceased. The hand squeezed his own.

-Napoleon ? Why don't you...

April sneered.

-Why ? He... is just sulky, Illya !

-Sulky ? Napoleon ? Why ?

Napoleon Solo kept on driving. He knew where he was going. The hand slipped along his arm, and fell down.

-Tell him, Napoleon.

-You are mad at him... because of what happened ?

-I am not mad at ... Okay. I have been mad at him. And at you, partner mine. Because you didn't tell me. You ... plotted. And the Old Man announced your death. Yes, I was mad at him, and at you. And don't tell me that I behaved like a child ! Mikey and ... April already did !

-Waverly wanted to protect you, my friend...So did I... He thought that you could be ...our mole's next target, ...and that he could take advantage ...of my « disappearance »...

Illya Kuryakyn was speaking softly, he obviously looked concerned.

-I know that, Illya, and I understand. I... would have done the same... had he asked me...

The communicator beeped again.

-Napoleon...

Napoleon Solo chuckled and gave up. He held it out to the Russian.

-Answer him, Illya.

* * *

Alexander Waverly had an uneasy feeling... He tried again, but Napoleon Solo was still silent. He didn't really know if he had to worry. He asked his CEA to act on his own, just in case. . It was simply caution... The problem was... Had he reasons to fear ?

He remembered the young agent, just coming from the Survival School. Amazingly relaxed. Self-confident. Rightly self-confident. Otherwise, Cutter would have fired him. Efficient. Brilliant. An extraordinary « social creature ». Some could consider him as superficial. A skin-deep appearance. A part he perfectly played. A womanizer... but he didn't look for deep emotional bonds. A good fellow... but he didn't really like to work with a partner. Alexander Waverly knew why. Napoleon Solo didn't fear for his own life... But he refused to take the risk of losing someone he would care about. He had experienced it.

Waverly sadly smiled : he had « teamed » him with his new Russian agent. Cutter had rolled his eyes... Napoleon Solo had frowned. Illya Kuryakyn had... acknowledged.

He called again.

-Mr Solo ?

* * *

Jules Cutter grabbed his bag and ran towards the sedan. The driver was waiting, ready to go. Cutter got in the car which moved off immediatly. A car, a driver... and probably some bodyguards. Waverly was really worried. Cutter looked around. In fact, two other cars were following them. He sighed.

Bayle couldn't help sneering. Alexander Waverly was great. Really great ! Thanks to him, they got rid of the Russian. Now, he obligingly handed to them Jules Cutter on a plate... Bayle pouted : he had a regret : he wouldn't see Cutter's face... when he would realize who was driving him...

* * *

Illya Kuryakyn coughed, and his partner suspiciously stared at him. The face was pale ; the features strained... he looked exhausted. He couldn't answer. Of course. Napoleon Solo took back the communicator.

-Yes, sir ?

And he didn't miss the faint smile on his friend's lips.

-Mr Solo ! What happens ? Where are you ?

-It's a long story, sir.

-I don't ask for a bed story, Mr Solo ! Jules Cutter will be here soon, and we have to talk. Come back immediately.

-I am afraid... I can't do that, sir.

-I beg your pardon ?

Alexander Waverly was puzzled. Napoleon Solo's tone was... different. No, it wasn't different. It was ... normal. Respectful, with a spark of humor. This normal tone was ... abnormal : Napoleon Solo mourned for his friend. He was angry. The last time he spoke to him, his tone was dull, cold.

-Mr Solo ?

Napoleon Solo mischievously grinned at his partner.

-Excuse me, sir. Someone... someone would like to greet you...

Alexander Waverly's usually emotionless face expressed the greatest surprise.

-Goodnight, sir. I... I am pleased to hear you.

The Old Man gulped... took a deep breath.

-Are... are you, Mr Kuryakyn ? I want you to know... that I am extremely pleased to hear you, too.

* * *

-Where are we going, Napoleon ?

April whispered. Illya Kuryakyn was more or less asleep.

-We are close, now. We ... are going... well. I could say that we are going ... home.

-Home ?

-My grandma left me a house... We'll be safe, and we'll care about Illya.

-Napoleon, Mr Waverly refused to know where... Why ?

-The mole, April.

* * *

-Mr Waverly ? We... we might have a problem.

-What about ?

-Mr Cutter's flight arrived as scheduled. But...

-But ?

Alexander Waverly eagerly insisted.

-But ?

-We saw him get in the sedan, and they moved off, with the bodyguards. But, sir... We've just found ... five bodies...

-And ?

-The driver, sir. And the four agents.


	11. Chapter 11

This bed was comfortable, and the pillow so smooth. So ... fresh, too. The room was silent. His friends were probably downstairs, and a pleasant smell made him smile. Coffee. When he opened his eyes, the dawn dimly lit the bedroom with an amazing pink tone. As pink as the roses of the wallpaper.

For all he remembered, it was Napoleon's grandma's house. He rolled on his side, in the linen embroidered sheets. He noticed that he wore brand new pyjamas, and chuckled. He knew that Napoelon had a collection of them, from his aunt... and apparently from his grandma. He carefully sat straight. His headache had almost passed off. He wasn't shivering, nor coughing. He would get up and join Napoleon and April, downstairs.

* * *

Jules Cutter apparently didn't pay any attention to his driver. He was reading a file, lost in thought. He didn't even notice their strange route ...

* * *

April Dancer put the mugs on the table. She was impressed : she knew Napoleon Solo, the CEA, for some years. He was efficient, of course. He would be Waverly's successor, of course. He was a faithful friend, of course. She remembered their fight to free, first, and then, to save Illya Kuryakin. She had met... the human being. Angry. Furious. Sad. Bitter. Vindictive. And still ... faithful. And still efficient. As soon as he had heard Illya's voice, he had handled the situation. He had called the woman in charge of the house... Just in case. So, when they arrived at home... everything was okay : the house was warm, the beds made, the fridge and the cupboards stuffed. Impressive.

* * *

He was really better. Perhaps a little dizzy... But he could say why. He was hungry. Hungy wasn't the right word. He was ravenous... Coffee meant ... toasted bread... jam... Eggs ? He pushed the door and reached the staircase. He heard voices, downstairs. He went down, slowly, guided by the distant sound.

-Mr Kuryakin, what a pleasure to see you ...

The Russian startled. The man was standing in the hall. Middle aged, plain dark suit. A welcoming look. Two guards flanked him.

-Come, Mr Kuryakyn, we have to talk.

He knew for sure that this man wasn't an Uncle agent.. But he had no choice. Napoleon and April...

The man pointed a door. Illya Kuryakin entered the room, a sitting room, with armchairs.

-Sit down, Mr Kuryakin. Would you like some coffee ? Some tea ?

The Russian didn't answer. He desperately tried to concentrate himself on the situation, but he couldn't help worrying about his friends.

-Mr Kuryakin, you are an Uncle agent...

A kind voice. Illya Kuryakin had no time to waste.

-Spare me that ! Where...

-Oh ? This house belongs to one of our executive. When we found you, you were... Mr Kuryakin ?

Illya Kuryakin clenched his fists : " _When we found you..._" The man lied. He had seen them. Napoleon had helped him...

-Mr Kuryakin ? You were alone, in this... cabin. Sick. Frozen. I... could have left you ... I chose to take you here. Your friends... your friends had abandoned you, Mr Kuryakin. You called them, do you remember ? And they didn't come for you.

Illya Kuryakin shook his head with disbelief. He knew... He remembered Napoleon, April... Or not. This drug... The man stared at him with a very unpleasant commiseration . Very unpleasant, because he looked ... genuine.

-I have ... an honest offer.

-Honest ?

-Tststs, Mr Kuryakin. You feel bitter, doubtful...I can understand it, but really, you should listen to me. You are in a tricky situation. Uncle... Uncle clearly mistrusts you ; you can't go back home... in Russia, I mean. So...

Illya Kuryakin couldn't believe it.

-You ... do you intend to offer me... to ... ?

The man burst into laughter.

-And... why not ? You are a scientist, and you could work in our labs. You wouldn't have to fight your... "friends", of course. You could live ... peacefully. You are officially dead... And ...

The man's voice was turning into a soft hiss.

-You could have a family. All that Uncle denies you... An ordinary life, Mr Kuryakin. And you would like that, wouldn't you ? A wife ? Childr...

The Russian rushed at the man, surprising the guards. For awhile. Something hard ruthlessly hit his head.

* * *

Bayle sighed. It was a pity that Simmons didn't manage to set up some device in Waverly's office... So arrogant... Although, he ought to be fair : for all that he could see, Simmons had to manage the affair on his own. Bayle was now going through the same experience : Thrush had agreed with his plan, entrusted him with the job... left it to him, more exactly. And he had to cope with the difficulties. Not enough men. Qualified ones. Men able to tail Napoleon Solo, for instance. He had to get by as best as he could. If he failed, he would be the one to be blamed. He had the unpleasant feeling that some people more or less expected his failure... But he wouldn't fail, and those would have to pay. At least, the Survival School was under control.

* * *

This bed was comfortable, and the pillow so smooth. So ... fresh, too. The room was silent. His friends should be downstairs, and he smelled something pleasant smell. Coffee.

But it wasn't real.

When he opened his eyes, the dawn dimly lit the bedroom with an amazing pink tone. As pink... as the roses of the wallpaper.

For all he remembered... and he didn't remember ... anything, it was Napoleon's grandma's house. He rolled on his side, in the linen embroidered sheets. He noticed that he wore brand new pyjamas.. He knew that Napoleon had a collection of them, from his aunt... and apparently from his grandma. He tried to sit straight, and felt giddy. He leaned back against the pillow. Everything twirled, and his headache had got worse. He wasn't shivering, nor coughing, but his vision was blurred.. He couldn't get up and join Napoleon and April, downstairs. If they were there. He suddenly heard voices and closed his eyes.

* * *

When they had reached the house, Napoleon Solo had helped his partner to the bathroom, for a hot shower. From his friend's unusual compliance with that, he had guessed how exhausted he was. Then, he had settled him in bed, and April had brought a tray with three bowls of broth. A few minutes and two aspirins later, the Russian had fell asleep. The shivering had ceased.

-He'll be fine, Napoleon. You should go to sleep, too. I'll stay with him for awhile.

* * *

Eventually he had manage to get up. He dizzily took one step after the other towards the door. He walked unsteadily down the hall. He was cautious about making his way down the stairs : falling and tumbling wouldn't be very useful. He grabbed the banister with his left hand, and firmly squeezed it. A twinkle caught his attention... He incredulously stretched his fingers : his ring...

-What the hell do you think you are doing, Illya Kuryakin ?

There was someone, down below. A severe looking April. The softness in her eyes and the sweetness of her smile belied the frown and the harsh words.

-Don't I smell... breakfast ?

April chuckled, and joined him.

-Of course, you do ! Go to bed, I'll...

-No, April. I am fine. Where is Napoleon ?

-Here I am ! Do you plan to eat breakfast there, sitting on the steps ?

* * *

The driver cursed : of course, there were roadworks in progress ! He peeped at the rear-view mirror. Amazingly, Jules Cutter was still reading his file. He looked... absent-minded. Indifferent. It was quite unusual, not at all « Cutter ». The man sneered deep down inside. « Do what I say, not what I do. »

_An agent has to be vigilant. Always._

_An agent never relaxes._

_An agent doesn't trust anyone_.

The recruits were pissed off.

« _A careless mistake means your death, boys ! _»

Of course, Mr Cutter...

* * *

Alexander Waverly absent-mindedly took a puff at his pipe. The enemy ... had scored. Jules Cutter wasn't a rookie, although, and Waverly couldn't help hoping. Anyway, whatever happened, the mole had mistaken. For the first time. First... Illya Kuryakin was alive. Secondly, Cutter's abduction... allowed him to eliminate some « suspects ». In the third place, the Survival School wasn't a safe place, anymore. Everything pointed that way. He had called Napoleon Solo, and told him about Cutter.

* * *

-Did you read Agatha Christie's novel _Ten Little Indians _?

Npoleon Solo and April Dancer looked at the Russian with amazement.


	12. Chapter 12

-Ten people, ten strangers on an island. An isolated island. One by one, they die. Murdered. They look for the murderer...

April nodded.

-Oh, yes, and there is a song about it : every victim dies the same way that the song tells ! It's a captivating story... but... quite depressing, because, you know... All of them are guilty ; they killed... or were to be blamed for one's death.

Napoleon looked at them thoughtfully.

-I can't see the point, Illya...

The young man leaned forward, grabbed a paper bag. Mechanically, Napoleon Solo handed his pen.

-Alexander Waverly, Jules Cutter, Mark Slate, Evan Stellon, you, April, you Napoleon, Mikey and me.

The Russian wrote each name. The dark haired agent couldn't help teasing. His friend looked so serious...

-Eight little Indians... And, Illya ?

-Simmons, and Bayle. Ten little Indians. Simmons is dead.

Illya Kuryakin crossed the name off.

-Bayle... is probably the one at the back of it. And we know him. The traitor, the mole... is one of the eight others.

The Russian spoke with a dull voice. April Dancer gulped. Napoleon Solo bit his lips : his partner's reasoning was outrageous. However, it was Waverly's reasoning, too.

And his own...

-What do you mean, Illya ?

April Dancer was deeply shocked.

-Shhhh, April. Easy... They abducted me... and the man had orders. He had to shoot me. Eleven bullets.

-But he failed... and you are alive. We can eliminate you !

Illya Kuryakin faintly smiled.

-Evan Stellon disappeared... at the Survival School.

-Poor Evan...

-And Jules Cutter has been abducted at the airport.

April Dancer frowned, and immediately added.

-Mark is still in hospital, Illya !

Napoleon Solo raised an eyebrow, and whispered.

-All we have left... are the Old Man, Mikey, April and ... me. It isn't a reassuring reasoning, my friend.

The Russian bitterly chuckled.

-Ten strangers on an isolated island... They die, one by one...

-Are you suggesting that we should... wait and see ?

Napoleon Solo couldn't help joking, but April Dancer stared at the Russian, obviously horrified.

-Look at April, Napoleon. She read the novel. She knows... « And then, there was one. » The last little Indian...

-Is the murderer ! The End !

-No, Napoleon... The murderer is one of the others... "And then, there was none..."

-A living dead ? You are kidding !

-No, a fake. In Agatha Christie's novel, the judge pretends to be dead.

Napoleon Solo sneered, tapping his partner on the shoulder.

-So, Stellon and Cutter... could be the mole. At least, we know for sure that **you** are innocent, my friend !

-Do we ?

Napoleon Solo was getting irritated. His friend was going a bit too far.

-Please, Illya, your « story » is ... improbable... Jules Cutter can't be a mole ! Evan Stellon... is a nice guy. I hope he is okay. And you... you are playing the Sphinx...

* * *

The roadworks caused traffic jam... Hard luck... The cars didn't move anymore. Worse, the two others had been left behind. He couldn't see them. He sighed. At least, his passenger was still reading.

* * *

The Russian joined his partner on terrace. Napoleon Solo was looking at the landscape. He heard footsteps.

-You worried April, my friend.

No answer.

Napoleon Solo turned towards his partner. Illya Kuryakin had put on clothes, and he leaned back against the wall, by the sunlight.

-Illya ?

-I didn't intend to do that... I simply said the truth. We have to face it, Napoleon !

The dark haired agent gave a shrug of impatience.

-You must be out of your mind ! What happens isn't easy to explain... But I know for sure that none of us is the mole !

-Do you ?

-The hell with your enigma, Illya !

Illya Kuryakin walked towards his partner.

-He shot me with their sleep darts, Napoleon. I... I don't know... I am not sure that you... are really here...

* * *

The driver was taken aback, as he once more time peeped at the rearview. His passenger was calmly getting out of the sedan, without a look at him. He went away, crossing the street. The man cursed. This... didn't run ! He walked... Where were the others ? He had no time to waste ; he got out of the car, and hesitated : he could run after Jules Cutter. On the contrary, he could manage to escape...

* * *

-Ouch !

Napoleon Solo ruthlessly pinched again his friend's arm.

-Ouch ! Stop it, Napoleon !

The older agent chuckled.

-It hurts ? Fine ! So, you are not asleep, Illya ! I am real ! I am not a dream.

The Russian rubbed his arm, muttering something barely audible.

-What do you say, about « nightmare » ?

-Nothing...

But at least he looked a bit relieved.

He wasn't really. Napoleon came back in the house, but the Russian sat down on the floor, by the sun. No, he wasn't relieved. He remembered the argument with this man, in his dream. Uncomfortable. He would never betray the Uncle... whatever the price. If any Trush operative had found him, in the cabin... he would have finished him off. This one... saved his life, and offered him... happiness ! He sadly smiled. An amazing dream. Surrealistic. He had related it to Napoleon, who, of course, had burst into laughter. He clearly thought that his partner was making a fool of himself...

* * *

-What ?

Alexander Waverly harrumphed.

-He asked... what ?

-The young man asked for his father, sir. Mikey, the fishe...

-Yes, yes, Mikey, the fisherman. Where is he ?

-That's the point. His son doesn't know, and he worries. The last time he heard of him, he was here, in New York. He came to meet Mr Solo...

-But Mr Solo ...

Waverly stopped talking.

-Sir ?

-I'll see at it.

Illya Kuryakin... had disappeared...Evan Stellon had disappeared. Jules Cutter had been abducted. Illya Kuryakin ... had been found alive... And now... Mikey had disappeared. A tricky game...

Alexander Waverly took a sheet of paper, and a pen : Mikey, Cutter and himself knew about Illya Kuryakin's mission. But he could have been tailed. Evan Stellon had been abducted... or killed, in the Survival School : Cutter ? But Jules Cutter had been abducted, too. Who knew ? Waverly himself... the School staff... Mikey disappeared. Napoleon Solo himself had cared about him. He had reported to Waverly that the fisherman was back to his son's home. And he wasn't.

Napoleon Solo couldn't be a traitor.

Waverly knew men.

He knew his CEA.

Napoleon Solo and April Dancer were somewhere, with Illya Kuryakin.

Napoleon Solo wasn't the mole.

He couldn't.

* * *

-April ? I am sorry... I...

-Shhhh, Illya, it doesn't matter. I think... you are right. We have to be careful. Anyway, you have to know that I trust you and Napoleon for dear life...

-So... so do I, April. Er... April ?

-Yes ?

-My medal ?

The woman slapped her forehead.

-Oh, yes ! Here it is. Napoleon has the chain...

-Where is he ?

-He wanted to thank the lady who prepared the house for us, I think. Illya ? Don't worry !

-I... I have to talk with Mr Waverly.

The Russian stood up and walked back in the house.


	13. Chapter 13

The man had this falsely concerned look that Alexander Waverly knew well. Simmons displayed it...

-Alexander... We are worrying, you know... We thought that you had put your organization to rights... So, what happens ?

Waverly ironically smiled.

-We are just suffering the consequences of Mr Simmons...

-Simmons is dead, Alexander ! Will you blame him until the end of time ?

Alexander Waverly ignored the insinuation. He wouldn't grant him that satisfaction.

-We have been told that you have .. lost ? some of your agents... It makes quite a dreadful impression on the others agencies, Alexander.

Waverly's smile became more marked. He kept silent. The other man frowned.

-We were sorry to hear about Mr Kuryakin's death... What are you looking for, Alexander ?

Waverly's smile turned innocent. A new-born babe... He conspicuously looked behind the man.

-The other commissioners, Vernon. You say « we »...

-You shouldn't try to make your show off, Waverly ! You have lost Kuryakin, a young recruit, and... Jules Cutter ! Who is the next ?

Alexander Waverly offered up a silent prayer. He was still smiling. The other frowned.

-Be careful, Waverly ! Make sure you...

-Is that ... a threat, Vernon ? Oh, excuse me, someone is calling. Are you done ?

The man was fuming, and left the office without a word.

* * *

Napoleon Solo walked towards the house. He remembered his childhood. A happy one. And this place ... Memories were flooding : play, adventures, his grandma's stories, the garden, arguments about everything... and always, despite all opposition, his grandma's support. She believed in him, even when he behaved childishly. She teased, she blamed, she comforted... Her house had become a refuge. She would have loved Illya. And Illya would have loved her.

* * *

-Mr Kuryakin ? What happens ?

Illya Kuryakin was puzzled : Alexander Waverly was the phlegmatic one. When he raised his eyebrows, you knew that it was serious. Almost the end of the world...

His voice was tense. He spoke inquiringly. The Russian hesitated.

-Sir ?

-Mr Kuryakin... where are your friends ?

Strange question.

-Miss Dancer is outside. Napol... Mr Solo ...

-Where is he, Mr Kuryakin ?

A harsh tone. The young agent took some steps forward and looked out of the window. He smiled. His partner was coming back, obviously musing.

-I see him, sir. He'll be there soon.

-Well, er... Mr Kuryakin... Mr Solo told me about your escape... Very clever, indeed...

-Very close... too. Sir, what about Jules Cutter ?

-Oh... er... he disappeared, Mr Kuryakin. He has been abducted...

-And Evan Stellon...

-He disappeared, too. And...

-And ?

-I am sorry, Mr Kuryakin. Mikey... Mikey's son asked about him. He might have... disappeared, too.

Mr Kuryakin ?

The Russian hissed.

-When ?

-Mr Solo met him, just after we found your bod... well, your assailant's body. Mr Stellon disappeared, and I asked Mr Solo to take care of your friend. He... he told me that Mikey was back at his son's home...

Illya Kuryakin was still looking out. Napoleon was reaching the wooden staircase. As the Russian kept silent, Alexander Waverly went on.

-The circle of suspects... grows smaller... Mr Kuryakin... I would like you ...

Waverly usually gave orders... He wasn't at ease with that. He gave up.

-Don't tell a word to Mr Solo about Mikey's disappearance.

A soft but determined voice answered.

-I won't do ...that, sir.

Waverly heard the man panting.

-I don't suspect your partner, Illya, you can have it for sure. But...

-Mr Waverly, did you read ... Agatha Christie's novel, ..._Ten Little Indians_ ?

* * *

Jules Cutter ... was out of sight. The young man cursed and chose to run away. The drivers sounded the horn, and the traffic police was coming He would leave the car. As he wore gloves... it didn't matter.

* * *

Napoleon Solo pushed the door and entered the living room. He had enjoyed his stroll, and smiled at his friend. The smile was wiped off, as he saw him turning white, and passing out.

_The street was desert. Amazingly._

_It was a nice afternoon._

_The street was silent. Amazingly._

_Every step he took sounded. As if he walked in a cathedral._

_The street was dusty. Amazingly._

_Every step he took raised a cloud of dust_

_The corridors were desert._

_It was a nice afternoon._

_The corridors were silent._

_Every step he took sounded. As if he walked in a cathedral._

_The corridors were dusty._

_Every step he took raised a cloud of dust._

_The room was silent except for a distant rustle._

_The room was desert._

_The room was dusty._

_He called his name._

_No one answered._

_Every breath he took raised a cloud of dust._

_He choked._

_He couldn't see anything._

_Someone was running._

_The floor was rough._

_The floor was cold._

_The floor was dusty._

_Every word he said remained soundless_.

-Illya ! Illya ! Wake up !

-Napol... Don't wor... I'm fin...

-No, you are not !

-Mist...W...vly...

-Stop talking, Illya. Try to breathe. Deeper. Slower.

Napoleon Solo looked at his partner. They had settled him on the couch. He looked better, but exhausted. April Dancer was helping him to drink. He saw his friend grabbing her hand. He was muttering something.

-Napoleon, the communicator ! Mr Waverly !

-Sir ?

-Mr Solo ! Where is Mr Kuryakin ? We were talking, and...

-He passed out, sir. Exhaustion, and the Thrush sleep darts. And...deprivation. He should have stayed in bed, but... He is better, sir : he just looks daggers at me...

* * *

The fisherman sneered. All those agents knew a thing or two, but he was a shrewd one, too. They didn't fool him. His refuge was quite comfortable, and no one would get him there. He could imagine the panic... Alexander Waverly, Napoleon Solo would be mad... He had given himself a free hand.

* * *

-Sir ? Illya is asleep. Why did you call us ?

-I didn't, Mr Solo. He did. He wanted to ask me... if I knew _Ten Little Indians_...

-And ?

-I did, Mr Solo.

-What do you think ?

-It's a... possibility, Mr Solo. Mr Solo ?

-Yes, sir ?

-Mikey, the fisherman, disappeared. You have to know that... he never came back to his son's home. Mr Solo ? Have you anything to tell me, about that ?

_The floor was soft. It wasn't a floor..._

_It was warm._

_A soothing hand was squeezing his own._

_Water on his lips._

_Birds._

_Smells._

_Air._

_But they should have let him._

_He would have recovered._

_He would have run after the mole._

_No matter the darkness._

_No matter the dust._

_They should have..._

"No." A simple answer. No explanation. Vernon the hyena would appreciate that... if he heard about it.


	14. Chapter 14

The Section 2 agents couldn't marry. The enemy could use a wife, a husband, kids to put pressure on an Uncle agent. Alexander Waverly had agreed with that, knowing however how hypocritical it was... Young men... and young women were trained to withstand pain, drugs... Cutter's first lesson was : « Trust yourself ! » Most of the Section 2 agents, around the world, were efficiently emotionless. No feeling for their own suffering... neither for the suffering of others. Except for the innocents... unless the success depended on it. Expendable agents. Collateral damage... Many of Alexander Waverly's fellow were comfortable with that.

He wasn't. The human factor.

He had instituted partnership as a rule. Of course, before, agents worked sometimes together. Alexander Waverly had created teams. Two agents working together...

He remembered his arguments with Jules Cutter about that. Cutter considered friendship as a weakness. First, an Uncle agent had to rely on himself. Not on a partner. An Uncle agent had not to be « pampered » ! Secondly, an Uncle agent had to mind his own business : an Uncle agent was not a « partner sitter » ! At last... a friend, a close friend, could be used as a bait by the enemy.

So, when Waverly had announced that he wanted to associate Napoleon Solo to Illya Kuryakin... Jules Cutter had came within a hair's breadth of a heart attack.

He sighed and crossed two names off.

Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo would never betray the Uncle. Whatever the price...

They had proved it.

Jules Cutter... Alexander Waverly couldn't believe it. However Cutter's insistence on freeing Illya Kuryakin, considering his old prejudice against the Russian, had been a surprise. When Alexander Waverly had asked about it, Jules Cutter had stared at him with his « Pragmatism and Efficiency first » look. As Illya Kuryakin was innocent, and a valuable agent, he had to be helped. Period.

Waverly crossed Cutter's name off.

He crossed April Dancer's name, too, and Mark Slate's.

And eventually... he crossed his own name.

Evan Stellon...

Mikey...

Ten little Indians...

Two perfect suspects. Two comfortable suspects.

* * *

Evan Stellon painfully stood up and looked around. The room was « modest ». His « host »'s own words. Modest ? Dilapidated, yes. Damp walls, peeled off. All they had left him were a sandwich and water. He had to stay here, and to wait. The windows were barred up. The room was... a cell.

* * *

-I must go to New York, April. To the Headquarter. You'll stay here with Illya, and...

-Forget it, Napoleon !

He had whispered ; although his partner was now fully awake, and... not very pleased by what he heard.

-Illya, look at yourself, my friend. You... you are in no condition to come with me. You have to rest. When you 'll be better, you'll be our ace in the hole.

The said ace in the hole stared at him straight in the eye. April Dancer stiffened, waiting for the storm.

-You... I hate to say that, but... you are right, Napoleon.

The two agents were puzzled. Illya Kuryakin closed his eyes, sighed, and limply leaned back against the pillows. His breath was shallow, and he looked... miserable. Napoleon Solo came closer, and gently tapped his friend's shoulder.

-Illya, I am going to help you to the bedroom.

The blue eyes opened, and the young agent shook his head.

-No, please... I am comfortable,...here. And it ...will be easier, for... April...

He was panting again, his face covered with sweat. Napoleon Solo clenched his fists, for he knew that his friend needed a doctor. But they were not in Mousehole, where people never interfered in other people's business...

-I'll be fine,...Napoleon, ...don't worry. You... take care of ...yourself, and...

He grabbed his wrist.

-Don't dare and disappear, my friend !... Napoleon... Waverly told me... that Mikey...

-I know, Illya. He told me, too.

_The room was desert. But he could see some footprints in the dust._

_The room was silent. But he could hear footsteps._

_The room was dusty. But it would help to track him down._

_If he could get up._

_In two or three minutes._

_Later._

-I don't like that, April. He ... he gave up without a fight.

-He isn't stupid ! He knows that he is, as you said, in no condition to help you. He doesn't want to be a burden...

-Stupid ? No... just... usually stubborn, April. No argument ? No complain ? That's not Illya... and I worry about it. We should take him in an hospital, but we can't do that. I... asked my neighbour's son to drive me to Portland. You'll need the car.

* * *

Bayle foamed. He thundered forth. He thundered forth against the whole world. Especially against his incompetent fellow. Since he had to spy, to listen, to watch, to report, to set up some bugs... everything was okay. Ask him to act... an appalling failure. And the icing on the cake : the guy groused. He wasn't to be blamed. Of course. Disgraceful organization. Unsuitable equipment. In a word... Bayle's fault. At least, Cutter didn't recognize him... Did he ? Cutter had escaped... but for all that Bayle knew, he didn't come back to the Uncle. Amazing. He could have called Waverly... or not. Bayle could foresee his superior's comments. He didn't like to work hastily... But he had no choice. He had settled Kuryakin's hash... He would personally take care of Napoleon Solo. Besides, speaking of him... Where was he ?

* * *

April Dancer and Illya Kuryakin got along extremely well. Some other agents felt sometimes uneasy with the young Russian. She was impressed by his efficiency, his knowledge. By the deepness of his friendship with Napoleon Solo. She trusted him, and she knew that he trusted her. That he valued her. As a colleague. As a friend. When she came back to the living room, Illya Kuryakin was sitting on the couch.

-Illya, you shouldn't... Do you want me to help you to the bedroom ? You'd be more comfortable.

The Russian stood up, shaking his head. He was still a little pale, but nimbler. With amazement, the young woman looked at him : he stretched, picked up his shoes and winked at her with a devilish smile. As she was understanding, she raised a hand.

-Illya Kuryakin... What the hell are you doing ? Oh, no, boy, forget it ! Napoleon would never forgive me !

* * *

The mole foamed. He thundered forth. He thundered forth against the whole world. Especially against his incompetent superior. His superior... Was he, really ? He gave orders, he planned, he moaned... But he did... nothing. They had an opportunity to get rid of Jules Cutter. It could have been easy. No, too easy ! _**Mister**_ Bayle wanted more panache ! Eleven bullets for the Russian, and an useless show for Cutter's abduction. The mole was far more pragmatic: when you can shoot your man... shoot him. Period.

* * *

Napoleon Solo thoughtfully looked out the window. His flight was scheduled at 6 p.m.. As soon as he would be in New York, he would call April. The situation was disconcerting. Their enemy clearly wanted to tumble the New York Uncle Headquarter. People disappeared, died. The atmosphere was laden with suspicion. Napoleon Solo sneered. No, it wasn't. The enemy had failed. He had undervalued their trust. Waverly would never suspect him, neither Illya. The CEA and his partner would never suspect Alexander Waverly. April and Mark... April and Mark were beyond suspicion, too. Jules Cutter... No way. Two names remained : Evan Stellon, the young man who had so faithfully helped them, during the Mousehole affair. And... Mikey. Mikey ? Mikey was... family.

However, Evan Stellon and Mikey.

Two logical suspects.

* * *

-Illya, he'll kill us.

-Yes, probably. First. And after that, he'll yell, fume, pester... and eventually admit that we were right, April.

-But he'll kill us, first ! Well, er... he'll kill me ! I had to take care of you, to pamper you...

-Yes, mother ! You pamper me : you drive !

-You are no fun, Illya.

April startled as she felt a quick kiss on her cheek.

-We have to join Napoleon, April. They got me. They got Stellon... They got Jules Cutter... And, they might have got Mikey. Napoleon is on their list...

-They... might... have got Mikey ?

-Mikey...

April peeped at his friend. No, he wasn't panting again. He was just lost in thought.

-Illya ?

-Mikey isn't an agent, April. He doesn't reason like we do. His approach to our problems is ...

-Naive ?

-Oh, no. He is not naive. He is a man of sense. His approach is simple. Everything where it belongs. Waverly wanted Napoleon to look after his safety. Mikey could have thought that... he had to look after Napoleon's safety.

-Because you couldn't do it anymore, Illya ?

* * *

The fisherman left the book on the couch. _Moby Dick_... Now he had his own white whale to track.


	15. Chapter 15

-He likes you very much, Illya...

-Yes, he does. And so do I, April. Mikey is... important.

April Dancer bit his lips. She didn't really talk about the fisherman, but she eventually knew better than to clear the misunderstanding.

-April ?

-Yes, Illya ?

The Russian was inquiringly looking at her, and she cautiously kept her eyes on the road.

-You talked about Mikey, didn't you ?

She hesitated, but she didn't try to fool her friend. Illya Kuryakin was still looking at her. She took the plunge.

-Napoleon... He likes you very much, too...

A second of silence.

-Yes... April, he is my partner, and... my best friend. And, I want you to know that what happened... taught me something. Napoleon is... my closest friend.

He softly chuckled.

-But he is not my only one.

Nice clearance, she thought, as a hand gently caressed her shoulder. They were reaching the surroundings of Portland.

-However, Napoleon will skin me alive, when he'll see us !

-Stop. Here.

* * *

Years ago, Mikey's Janice died. An accident. The brilliant student who had abandoned the idea of teaching in some illustrious university, of getting married with a her idea... Her family's idea. And she had chosen a young student who eventually wanted nothing else than to carry on his father's job. Janice had fought, ruthlessly fought against her parents. Mikey had been... tolerated.

When she died, he went out of his mind. He forgot all. Even his little boy. Ben... Luckily, Janice's older brother, the black sheep of the family, warned him : if he went on raving, Janice's parents would be given the custody of the boy. He reacted.

A few months ago, he had met a young man. A young blond Russian. Desperate. Lost. He had immediately seen the affinity between them.

He had listened. He had talked. He had comforted. And he had shaken up.

Friendship. Kind of family.

Illya... and Napoleon.

He had felt it in his old bones.

But it was too late. And someone would have to pay for it. Illya's friend wanted to protect him, but he didn't need to be protected. The dark haired agent's enemy looked down on a fisherman...

* * *

-Vernon, you are kidding ! Alexander Waverly... is not a traitor !

-I didn't tell that. He is not a traitor. I'll grant you that. But in this affair, he is... incompetent. Yes, he is ! His reasoning is wrong. Whatever you say, he answers about Simmons. It's his way out, sir ! Simmons and the mole ! It sounds as a tale for children.

-Vernon, this is going a bit far !

-Yes ? He lost Kuryakin, a recruit, Jules Cutter... And all that he says is : Simmons and the mole ! I got from a reliable source that his relationship with his CEA, Napoleon Solo, is quite... strained. And that's an understatement, sir.

-That's the point, Vernon. The « reliable source » ! My own reliable source told me another story : Alexander Waverly met Napoleon Solo at his home. Frankly, Vernon, you have to take it that everything is okay between them...

Vernon hissed, trying to keep his voice under control.

-You are not objective, sir. Alexander Waverly is a friend of yours...

-Yes, he is, Vernon. And I would like you to remember what could have happened, if his agent hadn't unmask Simmons. Don't roll your eyes ! Waverly and his men have got us out of a spot.

-It must be true, since you say so...

* * *

The stooped old woman looked at his husband, over her glasses, with suspicion. She stared at him from head to foot. Then she sneered, and with a quavering voice, she whispered.

-When I married you, you were... prettier, old lad !

The old man shook his head, and hissed.

-Gallantry prevents me from answering, my beauty.

-Silly old pirat !

-Nasty old witch !

The two old people entered the hall of the airport. As the receptionist gave them their ticket, she smiled at them with emotion. They were so cute... They reminded her of her grand parents. Just now, they were heading towards the boarding room, disputing, arguing... Really... so cute old people...

As he was boarding, Napoleon Solo peeked at the other passengers... to be quite sure. There was no risk, however. He knew that he have to be careful when they would be in New York. The enemy... He gently let an old couple pass. The old lady hurried, but the old man quavered a « Thanks, boy. »

April Dancer was still shivering, rolling her eyes.

-You... you are completely mad, Illya ! We could wait ! He... he is watching us ! Why did you...

-Tststs, old lady... He knows that he is safe, here. He doesn't suspect anything. And...

-And ?

-And you have to know that old people always arouse Napoleon's tender feelings...

-Illya...

-Yes ?

-You know what ? You are a good boy... Luckily.

-Am I ?

Their banter was reassuring, and April chuckled.

-Yes, Illya, you are a good boy, and I am a good girl.

The Russian sighed, and his friend frowned.

-Illya ?

-I ... I am not sure, April. It's probably nothing more than a dream, but...

Napoleon Solo couldn't help smiling, as he saw the two old people having a lively chat. The poor old guy ... He sat down.

-A dream, Illya ?

-I am in a street, desert, silent and dusty. Then, in a corridor, as desert, as dusty... but I can hear a distant rustle. At last, I am in a room. Desert. With footprints in the dust. And I hear footsteps. Someone is running. I want to run after, but I can't. I am lying on the floor, weak, so weak. But I know, April, I know that if I could get get up, and run after him, I would catch him up. And I would see his face.

-« Him, his face » ? How do you know that ?

-I... I know it, April...

-Where does it take place ?

-The street... looks like our street, with Del Floria's shop. It's old, desert, dusty, almost dilapidated. Inside, it isn't our headquarter. It could be...

The Russian winced.

-It could be the jail. You didn't see this place, April. It was ... inhuman. Desert, silent...

-And dusty ?

-Oh, no, not dusty. White. Clean. 's just a dream. A nightmare...

-But it worries you. Why ?

-Because... the dream goes on, April. That's unpleasant, and frustrating. Well, some day, I'll catch up my man...

April Dancer was lost in thought. She pouted.

-It's a dream, Illya, but... I think that... you know something you don't know...

The Russian looked at her with amazement.

-Would you explain, for those who don't speak the April Dancer's language ?

April shook her fingers, with despair. It was difficult.

-You run after someone, a man. You are sure that it's a man. You must know something you don't remember.

Illya Kuryakin rubbed his forehead.

-April ?

-Yes ?

-You are very... comforting, and you are an old witch !

* * *

Going back home was usually a relief. Not a daily one, alas. Alexander Waverly got out of the sedan. He nodded at his bodyguards. The obvious ones. The others were a model of discretion... He entered the house. His wife wasn't there. She was visiting her sister... Alexander Waverly lit up the living room, and froze.

-Welcome home, Alexander !


	16. Chapter 16

_The room was desert. _

_The room was silent. _

_The room was dusty. _

_He eventually manage to get up._

_He would track the man._

_Because he was a man._

April Dancer peered at his friend. The old man was soundly asleep, but his features were strained. She should wake him up, but... she knew how exhausted he was. The nightmare might fade away.

_The door was closed. _

_But it opened as he stretched out his hand._

_The corridor was desert._

_The corridor was silent._

_The corridor was..._

_White._

_Clean._

_Dazzling._

_He staggered. He tottered._

_He stumbled and caught hold of the wall._

_But there was no wall._

_And he fell down on a dusty floor._

When he opened his eyes, he met April's concerned gaze. He faintly smiled.

-I couldn't catch him up... Not yet...

He spoke softly, but she heard him clearly.

-What are we going to do, when we'll be there ?

Lost in his own dream, he wasn't really aware of the person sitting beside him, until she tapped his arm.

-We are like snipers in a desert town, April. Each of us is waiting for the other to make the error.

-So, all we just have to be more... patient.

The Russian raised a finger and stated, in a learned manner.

-The « wait and see » policy... Waverly's choice, apparently.

-Not yours.

Not a question. A statement.

-As soon as we'll be in New york, Napoleon will be a target.

-Napoleon isn't a rook... Er, I...

Illya Kuryakin couldn't help laughing, seeing April's trouble.

-I am sorry, Illya, I didn't mean...

-I know. In a way... however... The man who shot me... I picked a blue car, behind mine. But on the way to the airport, I didn't pay attention. I undervalued the risk, April. I won't make the same mistake again.

-You had no reason to suspect anything... And eventually, you had been more than a match to this man !

-It was close... He could have killed me, April. He had to act upon a strange staging. If he hadn't...

-Eleven bullets. A firing squad... Why ?

-You shoot a criminal... a traitor... It was just to ... make fun of me, of the Uncle.

-Who is the mole, Illya ? How could they... ?

-They didn't need a mole, April. We ... I have been careless. They had just to watch... The « wait and see » policy. They are good at it...

-We are going to use Napoleon as a sitting duck, Illya ?

* * *

Napoleon Solo summed up what he had to do. First of all, he would call April. No. First of all, he would have to carefully look around : he wasn't paranoid. Those men had trapped Illya Kuryakin. And Jules Cutter. Luckily, their enemy had a fondness for theatrical stagings. He wanted to make fun of them. Arrogance ? Stupidity ? Hatred ? It didn't matter. Because, as arrogant, as stupid, as full of hatred he was... he was efficient. Maliciously efficient. Illya could have been killed in the jail. He could have been shot in the street. Stellon and Mikey... were easy targets. Jules Cutter wasn't. Though... they have got him. The enemy knew them. He knew them so well. It looked like he could foresee ... all. So they would have to seek safety in being unpredictable. Loosen cannon...

* * *

Evan Stellon cursed. He couldn't stay there. He felt useless. The room was darker. Of course, there was no light. He forced himself to think. An Uncle agent, a Jules Cutter's student, couldn't give up so easily. He couldn't help sneering. His « host » had just locked him up. « For your own sake. » Of course.

* * *

-Well done, Ben.

-I did what you asked, dad... but I don't condone... They were really worried, and...

-Of course, they were, Ben. They have to be. Now, you'll have to call them on a regular basis, as a really worried son. Is Alan... ?

-Yes, he is on his way. He'll leave you the car. You'll drop him at the station. But... what are you doing ? Those men ... are professional, dad. You could have been hurt, last month, so, I don't understand...

-Ben, I am a grown up. I won't take any chances. You can believe me.

The young man hung up. He had no faith in his father's last words. But he knew better than to argue.

* * *

Bayle had tried to brush aside the Thrush executive's instructions. Vainly. He had reported about Cutter's escape. At his surprise, the man he was speaking to had simply listened to him. No ironical comment. Just an amazing remark.

-You can't handle this on your own. You'll need help.

Help ? Er, yes, of course, he needed help... He had seeked their help. Well, mentally. Before... But now...

-You are now looking for Napoleon Solo ? Apparently, he is not in New York. We'll keep an eye on his apartment ; you'll look for the Uncle headquarter. Wait and see. Sooner or later, Mr Solo will come back... Home, perhaps. To his headquarter, probably.

Bayle had argued : the Uncle agents might pick him out.

-You are the one who caused trouble among them, Mr Bayle. And they didn't « pick » you out. Thanks to you, we've got rid of Kuryakin, at last.

-Yes, sir.

How interesting !

-About Jules Cutter...

Here we are...

-You told me that he didn't come back to the Uncle. Amazing, no ? Are you that sure he didn't recognize our friend ?

-Yes, sir.

-He could... come back ? We could stage it...

Bayle frowned. He had other plans, about the mole. But the man went on.

-On the other hand, he is our ace in the hole... We'll see at it later.

Bayle foamed : he wouldn't take much more of being treated like that. This man had patronized him... But he would handle the situation and shut him up. Sooner or later. The sooner, the better.

* * *

Alexander Waverly was stunned with surprise.

-Those security measures of yours are... pitiful, Alex. And those guards... If I was a Thrush agent...

Waverly took a deep breath, make sure that his voice wouldn't tremble. He trusted Jules Cutter : one way or another, Cutter had escaped. He wasn't a traitor. The Section one, Number one wouldn't call for help.

-If you were a Thrush agent... Have I to take it that you are not ?

Cutter's gulp gratified Waverly's pride. The head master of the Survival School shrugged his shoulders, and sat down in the leather armchair. With a mischievous smile, Alexander Waverly pointed the bar. Cutter nodded.

-I thought you had been abducted, Jules. That you were perhaps already dead.

Jules Cutter stared at his glass, shaking the ice. He looked thoughtful.

-Jules ?

-It was close, Alex...

Alexander Waverly couldn't help smiling. He had heard that... Of course, Jules Cutter looked abashed.

-I am glad you enjoy it, Alex...

-Jules... For some awful hours, I lost one of my best agents...one I ...well... And one of my best friends. I lost a young recruit. And ... Mikey, yes, ou fisherman... disappeared.

Waverly's smile worried Cutter. He trusted the man. He trusted him with dear life. Waverly was listing his loss. His human loss. And he was smiling.

-I am not out of my mind, my friend. You are alive, and you are going to tell me what happened. But before... I have good news.

-Stellon ?

Waverly bit his lips, and shook his head.

-No. You should know, Jules...

Jules Cutter looked utterly perplexed.

-Our top agent's particular skill, Jules : don't you remember ?

A strange glow lit up Cutter's eyes. Yes, he remembered. But it was impossible. You can escape from a blasted jail. But ...

-Illya Kuryakin is alive, Jules. Alive, and free. He has been abducted, as you were. As you did, he escaped...

-The body...

-As you did, Mr Kuryakin wisely decided to delude our enemy. And... as you said... it was close. However, we don't know about Mr Stellon, neither about Mikey.

Jules Cutter drank, still thoughtful. He was relieved, of course.

-When I got into the car, Alex, I felt... uneasy. I can't really explain that : the driver muttered something that could be a greet... And he drove away. He didn't tell me about the security measures. The two other cars... have been soon outdistanced. Even your incompetent bodyguards wouldn't do that... At last,... there were some roadworks... and the driver got caught in the traffic. Unusual. Abnormal. He should have got us out... and he just stopped in the traffic jam... I chanced it.

* * *

-He looked at us, Illya.

-_Lasciate ogni speranza,_ _voi ch'entrate..._

April Dancer peeked at her friend, taken aback.

-It isn't Dante Alighieri's Inferno, Illya. Just the hall of the airport.

The Russian pointed at the gents, and left April, without a word.

The two old people were still there. They were probably waiting for their kids. Napoleon Solo looked around. The place was a hive of activity, but quickly men and women crossed the room, and hurried towards the way out. He had to merge into the crowd.

April Dancer mentally cursed. Napoleon Solo was making his way out, and the Russian wasn't back. She hesitated, but she had no real choice : they had to protect the CEA. She knew that Illya Kuryakin would never have admitted that he wasn't fine. She took some steps towards the gents... But Napoleon Solo was already out of sight. She changed her mind, and rushed after the CEA. Illya would have to manage...

Napoleon Solo could rent a car. He eventually headed towards the taxi stand. As he walked, a yellow car stopped along the sidewalk. Good. He wouldn't have to wait... The driver got out of the taxi, to open the trunk. Napoleon Solo brought his case. The driver was a small one, stooped. The dark haired man leaned forward to help. At the same time, he felt a twinge of pain in his neck, and heard a well known, but so harsh voice.

-You're getting old, my friend !

All that April Dancer saw was Illya Kuryakin pushing his partner in the trunk of a taxi, locking it, and jumping in the car. As he drove away, he made an ironical sign to her.


	17. Chapter 17

Jules Cutter and Alexander Waverly were lost in thought. Cutter felt relieved. And eventually, no so surprised. The Russian had survived. An ace in the hole. A pain in the neck. It depended... Some memories faded with time. Not this one.

-_You intend to do ... what, Alexander ?_

_-I don't intend to do. I did._

_-You must be kidding. We can't do it !_

_-Yes, We... I can. I did. We are the UNCLE. U is for United, N for Network..._

_-C for Command, L for Law and E for Enforcement. I think I know that. But you ... don't._

_The so innocent look, under the bushy brows._

_-Don't try and dare to play cat and mouse with me, Alex. Many countries all over the world are part of the Uncle. That a necessity. I know that. Our strength. But... that..., no, Alex ! A Russian ! They are ou enemies. We fight them, and..._

_-No, Jules. We fight some criminal organizations, Jules. We need to extend our sphere of influence. So, we'll welcome this Russian agent. He'll be one of us. And perhaps, others, after him. Anyway..._

_-Anyway ?_

-_It's none of your business, Jules. I might be rude... but it's the truth. The Russian is a brilliant young agent. He came from the Russian Navy ; he worked with the GRU and the KGB._

_-Quite reassuring ! I feel much better, Alex._

_-You won't have to meet him._

_And Jules Cutter had burst into anger. Alexander Waverly had recruited a Russian agent, and this... wouldn't have to attend the Survival School ? Waverly could whistle for it _!

_-He is quite qualified, Jules. It would be a waste of time._

_-Where is the problem ? If he come to the School, his ability won't be any longer in doubt, and..._

_-And you are a devil with the other recruits, Jules. You'll just try to bump him off..._

_-The rule, Alex. The rule. Equity. Every new agent, whoever they are, have to attend the Survival School. Will your Russian be favoured ?_

_-He is qualified, Jules..._

_-Not a chance, Alex_.

_Jules Cutter almost choked, as he saw the said Russian. He had a quite caricatured vision of what a Russian looked like. Of what a KGB agent looked like. The mix, in his mind, was dreadful. Almost... disgusting. What he watched at was a sort of skinny, blond boy. Average height. Blond hair... Long hair. Far too long. Childish blue eyes. A sort of... lab boy, with... Cutter had read the file... a PhD in quantum mechanic... The Russians were probably dying laughing at them. Waverly was waiting for a grown up agent... They gave him a shy boy. Around Cutter, everybody looked incredulously at the attraction._

_Cutter had mercilessly sneered at the little blond boy... And at Alexander Waverly._

_-Jules ? May I remind you of one amongst all your rules ? Never undervalue your opponent !_

_He had all the more sneered. Then regretted it. Then, carefully avoided the subject._

_The Russian was damned good. And efficient_  
_One or two fights against Waverly later..._

_As an honest man, Cutter had acknowledged defeat. He had valued the Russian's efficiency. Then, his uprightness. At last, his faithfulness_.

There were very few men Jules Cutter trusted. « Trust no one, trust yourself. »...

* * *

Alexander had undertaken the responsibility of the Northwestern Uncle headquarter years ago. He had got stuck in the work, and his wife sometimes moaned that he would die on harness. But he wanted the best. For his family. Fir the Uncle. He needed a successor : he had chosen Napoleon Solo. And he had partnered him with the Russian. An explosive mixture. For Thrush.

-You were right.

Alexander Waverly startled : Did Jules Cutter read his thought ?

-I disagreed with you, when you got Mr Kurykin...

Waverly raised an eyebrow, and leaned forward.

-You... disagreed ? Just... disagreed ,

Cutter smiled, and shrugged his shoulders.

-Where are they ? I mean... Mr Kuryakin and Mr Solo ?

-Miss Dancer is with them. They are... I can't tell you, Jules.

Jules Cutter stiffened, and frowned.

-Don't worry, Jules. I can't tell you... because I don't really know.

* * *

People in the street peeped at the strange woman. Dressed up like an old lady, she stood, open mouthed, on the sidewalk.

A mistake.

A delusion.  
Illya would rush out of the hall.

He would be mad at her for having done... nothing.

But the young man dressed up like a grandpa.

The taxi driver.

And his ironical sign...

A hand on her shoulder. She peered at it. Dirty.

Not Illya's.

* * *

The man looked at the photo and sighed. His life.

* * *

Mad ? Perplexed ? Puzzled ? The man tossed and turned in the trunk. Vainly. It smelled foul. He felt a twinge of pain when his head met something metallic, just where it had hit the hood. He cursed. He had been taken in. He should have got to be on his guard. So he was mad... at himself. Then, the voice. The words. He was perplexed, puzzled. He had left his friend in such a state of exhaustion, feverish, barely conscious, with April, in his grandma's house. And the said friend had just pushed him in the trunk of a taxi, here, in New York. Napoleon Solo stopped tossing and turning. He was mad at Illya. Sure, he was. This... had tailed him to the airport. In the plane. He was so good at going unnoticed... The problem was... why ?

He realized that the car was slowing. He didn't really worry : Illya Kuryakin was his friend, his partner. He didn't run any risk. Did he ?

The car eventually stopped., and the trunk opened. Napoleon Solo contorted himself to get out, pushing aside the helpful hand. Then, he grabbed hold of the taxi driver and hissed.

-You'll be sorry for that, partner mine.

Sweat was dripping down the Russian's forehead. It stinged his eyes and made him blink. His vision was blurred, he felt exhausted. Too much efforts. He didn't resist.

-What are you doing ? You are dressed up like...

He carefully stared at him, and a flash of understanding crossed his mind.

-Oh, no... The old... and April... ?

Illya Kuryakin blankly looked over his shoulder. Napoleon Solo ruthlessly shook kim. The Russian staggered, as if he was to pass out. The grip released and his friend helped him steady. So, April was part of the plot...

-Okay, Clyde... Where is your old Bonnie ?

The voice was less harsh. Not harsh at all... Illya Kuryakin smiled a real smile. He leaned a little on his partner arm.

-Perhaps we could talk about that some where else, Napoleon ?

-You have a suggestion ?

-Home.

-Not very wise, my friend.

-The Village... And you drive.

Napoleon Solo was torn between some left anger and worry. He trusted his friend. Undoubtedly. Illya Kuryakin wasn't his enemy.

He was just... stubborn. Irritating... Aloof... Infuriating.

In a way, he was himself again.

_I do as I please._

_I hit upon the idea of doing something._

_Idée fixe. Bright idea._

_Explanation... later. Perhaps_.

The good old Illya. Not so old...

The « How interesting » Illya.

From before the jail.

Napoleon Solo pouted : he was the one to be blamed.

The so easy-going Russian...

The weak, exhausted Russian...

Illya's obedient resignation...

Illya and resignation : a contradiction in terms.

And he had been taken in...

As if he didn't know the man...

However, he peered at his partner : it wasn't all an act. Illya was more or less dozing ; the shadows under his eyes were not make up, and his forehead was sweaty.

_He was completely out of breath._

_The smoke made him choking._

_But there was no smoke._

_His chest tried to heave. Painfully._

_He gulped._

_Dust was filling his nose, his mouth._

_But there was no dust._

_His eyes stank._

_His eyesight was blurred._

_He couldn't help coughing._

_And he heard someone sneering._

_Far from him._

-Illya ? We are there, partner mine. How are you doing ?

The Russian shook his head, and combed his hair with his hand.

-I... I am fine, Napoleon.

-Just what I can see, Illya, as usual. Can you get out, and make it to the apartment ? I'll park this taxi...

-No. You can leave it here. Pavel... Pavel... will come later.

-Oh ? Pavel ? Don't ask...

-Pavel. Don't tell...

* * *

April Dancer freed herself from the grip and looked daggers at the young man.

-So...sorry, I thought you were... needed ..help.

And he sneaked away.

She had to inform Alexander Waverly. Simple to phrase. Not so simple to tell : Illya Kuryakin ... had abducted Napoelon Solo. Under my nose. Worse. I was his abettor.

Cool. The Old Man would appreciate.

Ten Little Indians...

A man above suspicion.

* * *

-Why did you leave April ? She ...

They have picked up the key. Settled themselves in the apartment. Scanty furniture. But ... stuffed with the necessities. A safe place...

-She'll scratch my eyes out... But I needed a witness... She'll report to Waverly about your abduction. She has already, probably.

Napoleon Solo frowned.

-What's the matter ? Neither Waverly nor April could believe that you are ... the mole, Illya ! April stood up for you against everybody, against yourself, last year. The Old Man... well, you know that. Do you, Illya ?

-"Trust no one, trust yourself"...

The older agent felt uneasy ; could the Thrush drug have affected his friend's mind, again ?

-Cutter is wrong, my friend. Realize that, Illya ! Cutter... Cutter himself stood up for you... He trusts you. Trust... is our strength.

-Our weakness, Napoleon. We are lacking in discernment.

Napoleon Solo instantaneously drew his gun, and aimed at his partner's head. Illya Kuryakin didn't move an eyelash.

-Okay : you are the mole. I'll shoot you. If you prefer : I am the mole, and I'll shoot you. We are the moles, and we are going to shoot the whole world ! You are making a fool of yourself, Illya. Stop it, now. You'll have a shower, and I'll call Waverly. And try to prevent April from skinning you alive !

The Russian shrugged his shoulders : he stretched his hand and took hold of his partner's gun.

-You see, Napoleon ? Our weakness. I can't believe you could kill me in cold blood. You can't believe I can kill you in cold blood. Our enemy knows us. He knows us perfectly well. Last year, he had experimented with a strategy : he failed. But he learned. Now, he obviously uses us. As a bait. He pushes. He stretches. He strains our confidence. Last year, there were facts. Obviousness. And you fought against evidence. This time, he tries ... insidious doubt.

-And you help him, Illya ! That's stupid !

-I don't help, I ... refuse to wait and see. I play his game. We have to stop being predictable, Napoleon. Let him enjoy some cracks... Some hollaw cracks. "firebreak". I am going to have a shower. And you'll call Waverly... later. April's worry have to sound true. And Waverly's, too.

-I made a mistake : both of them will skin you alive... But, Illya, our enemies know that you are not one of them... They'll suspect a trick. They'll have for sure that it's a trick ! And neither Waverly nor April will tell anyone about that, because none of them can believe it ! I can't see...

-Of course, they'll suspect a trick. But they won't understand. They won't know where they'll have to go... They'll have to play, groping their way along. Mr Waverly and April... are probably watched. Whatever they believe, they'll react. Our enemy will notice it. It could be enough. Time for shower... See at something to eat ?

The Russian stood up and tottered toward the bathroom. He leaned against the door and added.

-And from now, Napoleon, whatever Waverly thinks and says : we won't keep anything from each others.

And he disappeared. Napoleon Solo took his gun back. Being unpredictable. His own reasoning... Cutter was wrong : trust no one... wasn't a good strategy. You just had to carefully choose the ones... the one ? ... you trusted. He sighed and headed towards the small kitchen.

And the alarm sounded. Discreet. But it sounded.


	18. Chapter 18

Alexander Waverly caught his communicator. Jules Cutter got up and walked towards the bar? He was pouring some whiskey when he heard Waverly's muffled curse.

-What ?

He stood, looking at his friend. His face reflected his amazement. He was listening, and Jules Cutter saw amazement turning into anger. A cold anger. Waverly answered, dryly.

-In one hour, in my office, miss Dancer.

Cutter peered at Waverly inquiringly. The man looked older. With a dull voice, he gave his friend notice of the news.

-Mr Solo has been abducted. Miss Dancer... Miss Dancer saw the abduction. She couldn't do anything, apparently.

-Mr Kuryakin ?

Oh, Mr Kuryakin ... Well, he's fine, Jules. For all that we know... Mr Kuryakin is the one who abducted Mr Solo...

Cutter gulped : the story started again. He bitterly reckoned that he should have known better than to expect situation to sort itself out.

-It's a trick, Alex. They play it again !

-No, Jules. Mr Solo was on his way to New York. He wanted to talk with me. He left Miss Dancer and Mr Kuryakin... where they were...

-What happened ?

Jules Cutter listened at Waverly's story. Nevertheless, he still couldn't believe it.

-Is she sure ? Mr Kuryakin could have been abd...

Waverly cut in.

-No, Jules, no. I would like it, you know that. But no. Illya Kuryakin pushed his partner in the trunk of a taxi. Almost under miss Dancer's nose... And he had given her a mocking sign. I'll go back to headquarter. You... you can stay here, if you want.

Jules Cutter pouted.

-No, Alex. We need to present a united front. Of course, you don't believe that Mr Kuryakin is... a mole ? That's impossible. He was the innocent... He is beyond suspicion.

-As a consequence, he is the perfect mole, Jules ...

-Alex...

Cutter's voice was slightly threatening.

-I don't believe that, Jules. Don't worry. I f we are right, Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin should call me soon... If they don't...

-Not a chance.

* * *

He couldn't help sneering. So easy. April Dancer didn't recognize him She had looked at the young guy with surprise, and anger. No fear. She just saw a labourer. And probably she was feeling guilty of her harshness. But he had sneaked away. As soon as he had fixed the bug on her coat.

What he had just heard was... amazing.

As he was fretting in his cellar, Bayle had « freed »him. He had to keep a close watch to the airport, and to report to his superior.

-Don't try to do anything. Just report if you see Solo. And remember to be careful : he knows you !

Arrogant. Bayle was arrogant.

As he was reaching the airport hall, he had seen April Dancer. Standing on the sidewalk. Abashed. Open-mouthed. He brought some devices... Who knew what could happen... Of course, he wouldn't report to Bayle. Would he ? Napoleon Solo... Well, he hadn't seen him. Had he ? He had no orders about miss Dancer...

Concerning the greatest surprise... he was to give Bayle a taste of his own medecine. Bayle prided himself ( and it was an understatement !) of having got rid of Illya Kuryakin... His face when he would discover... His face when he would tell him... No : his face when their superior would give him notice of his pitiful failure... The mole was like the cat who got the cream.

Bayle had taken advantage of Simmons's shortcomings. Time to pay, Mr Bayle... Tit for tat...

However, what was Illya Kuryakin's purpose ? It was a mystery. The Russian wasn't a Thrush agent. It was a trick, a delusion... Or... Illya Kuryakin went mad at his partner, at his superior, at the whole Uncle because they mistrusted him. Or... he had gone out of his mind, thanks to their drug. Each thing in its proper time. First, he hoped that April Dancer would keep her coat with her, in Waverly's office.

* * *

Napoleon Solo got his gun out and silently slipped out the kitchen. His partner, a towel around his hips, holding his own gun, had sneaked out the bathroom. They heard noise outside. It was quite reassuring. Thrush agents were a little more silent... and discreet. Someone was trying to enter. He muttered. He cursed. Napoleon Solo frowned and startled as he peeked at his partner. Illya's face relaxed. A childish, delighted smile. The Russian put his gun on the old couch and headed towards the door. As he was to open , he hesitated as if he had changed his mind. They could a clatter, and some new curses. Illya Kuryakin's smile brightened and Napoleon Solo shook his head. Of course. The old pirate ! He knew it. The old man had deluded his babysitters. He hadn't been abducted ! Napoleon Solo understood Illya's hesitation. Mikey... thought that the young Russian was dead. It would be a shock. A happy one... but... Illya Kuryakin eventually unlocked the door.

Mikey staggered, and took some steps in the living. He looked at Napoleon Solo with obvious astonishment. The older agent smiled, and pointed his hand at the Russian. Mikey turned his eyes, and Napoleon Solo acknoledged the fisherman's self control. He shook his head, and stared at the young man from head to foot. And he smiled. Illya's delight was as obvious. Napoleon Solo noticed it with something he would deny in a torture chamber; With a hint of... jealousy.

-You should dry yourself, boy. You are... kind of dripping.

As he said that, the fisherman had taken some more steps forward and hugged the young man.

Family.

Mikey was... family.

Napoleon Solo knew Illya Kuryakin for years. Five.

Mikey knew him for less than six months.

Napoleon Solo was a partner.

A friend. The closest friend.

But the closest friend... wasn't family.

Napoleon Solo teased himself. Illya considered Mikey as an uncle, a step-father... Mikey considered Illya as a nephew, a step son. For the very first second he had seen him, Napoleon Solo knew that for sure.

Would you like your partner to consider you as a relative ?

Illya back in the bathroom, the fisherman sat down on the couch with an embarrassed look. It didn't fool the older agent.

Mikey sheepishly asked. Sheepishly, as you didn't notice the twinkle in his eyes.

-You... must be mad at me ?

-First, I am relieved, Mikey. Secondly...

Napoleon Solo broke off. The fisherman kept silent.

-Secondly, yes, I am mad at you. We worried about you. When Waverly told me... Why, Mikey ?

-I thought you could need some help, Napoleon. Your spy world is amazing. I am just a fisherman... But my point of view is ... different. You, Uncle agents, favour your missions. You favour innocent's life. You favour your partner's life. Incidentally ... you take care of your own. Your enemy uses that against you. Illya and Mr Waverly wanted to protect you, but Illya was the target. So, as you wanted to protect me...

Napoleon Solo stared at the fisherman with astonishment. His reasoning was ... exactly their

-You decided to watch my back ...

-I beg your pardon ?

-You decided that you had to protect me...on Illya's behalf...

-But Illya is alive. How... ?

-He'll tell you, Mikey. It's a long story...

Mikey rubbed his chin. He looked thoughtful. He remembered the Russian's strain, when the jail blasted. He remembered his determination. He remembered Napoleon Solo's anger... despair... when he thought that his friend was dead...

-As you are chatting... should I say "chattering" ? like old buddies, I guess the dinner is ready ?

* * *

April Dancer got out of the taxi, paid, and looked around the street. It was quite desert, and almost silent. She took some deep breathes. Alexander Waverly was waiting for her. He wasn't pleased... And he had some reasons. She stopped in front of Del Floria's shop.

-Excuse me, madam ?

A well trained agent, April Dancer twisted round, her gun in her hand. Too late. She knew it at the right moment she felt a twinge of pain in her neck.

* * *

The mole gulped. What... ? April Dancer was to join Waverly... Bayle's voice. What the hell the damned fool ... Oh, no... This idiot ...

* * *

Illya's plan had been to wait until morning... But he gave up. Mikey was free. There were only two lost Indians left... Jules Cutter and Evan Stellon. Waverly... and April had to be informed.

-Time to call the Old Man, my friend...

-Have I to take that I must call him ? Why should I ? It was your idea, tovarish...So...

The blond agent slightly raised an eyebrow, tilted his head on the right, and respectfully declared.

-You are the CEA, Napoleon. You have to report to Alexander Waverly... That's your privilege.

Napoleon Solo grabbed his communicator, looking daggers at his so guileless partner, and muttering something about a Russian brat.


	19. Chapter 19

Alexander Waverly pointed his finger at his communicator. Jules Cutter grabbed it inquiringly. Waverly nodded.

Illya Kuryakin sipped his tea, peering at his partner. Waiching his face. Napoleon Solo's eye grew wide with surprise.

-What ?

The two men, on the couch, frowned but soon relawed as they heard the older agent chuckling.

-Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Yes, he is here... Oh, I told him that...

The tone was ... amazing. Civil words, light voice. He wouldn't adress Waverly so... TheCEA handed the communicator towards his friend.

-Some one want to talk to you...

Alexander Waverly took a sheet of paper, and wrote a name. The situation had evolved. Eventually, Only one litte Indian was missing. For the moment... Waverly bitterly smiled, for he reckoned he was growing ... optimistic...

-Evan Stellon is still missing... for the moment.

Waverly startled : it was getting a little on his nerve. He realized Cutter's look.

-You... You just phrased my thought, Jules.

-Isn't Miss Dancer late ?

The situation had evolved... Bayle felt uneasy. Cutter ... had escaped, but no triumphal come back at the headquarter. Napoleon Solo... was a ?. Stellon... wasn't a problem, any more. The thought of Kuryakin's death didn't comfort him. Okay, Kuryakin had been shot. But, first, it was his only success. Secondly... Bayle worried about his killer. His fate didn't relly matter to him, of course, but he had ... disappeared. For the very first time, Bayle doubted. He locked the door. April Dancer... Why not ? He just wanted to remind Uncle of the threat... That could get Solo out of his retreat. Eventually... It was a stroke of luck.

-You could go back home, Mikey...

The three men had settled themselves, in the small apartment. Napoleon Solo was showering.

-No way, boy ! You won't get rid of me. And you wouldn't throw me in the lion's mouth, Illya. Would you ?

The Russian bit his lip. Mikey was a man with ideals. Simple ideals, but high ones. Napoleon would call that ... stubbornness.

-You could, Mikey. I am sure you don't run any risk.

-What the hell are you babbling, Illya ? Of course, he does !

Solo exclaimed loudly.

-No, he doesn't.

It was not an ordinary Thrush affair. Thrush operatives didn't care about innocents. Worse, they used them. Thrush operatives would have rushed up to the fisherman...

-What do you mean, Illya ?

The Russian sighed.

-What happened last year was a Thrush plan. Studied. Set. Build. With agents.

Napoleon Solo cut in.

-And what happens now ? Thrush almost killed you, my friend, they almost got Jules Cutter and they got Stellon. And you believe that Mikey can go back fishing ?

-The secret word is « almost », Napoleon... The Uncle fought against Thrush for years... Thrush often tried to defeat us.

-And they often « almost » succeeded. As you said, Illya, « almost » is the secret word.

The fisherman kept silent, listening to the argument.

-Almost... doesn't mean easily. This time, Napoleon, our enemy took us in ... easily, and...

-Yes, we have to be more careful, all of us. You feel guilty because you have been...

-No, Napoleon, no. You don't understand.

Their enemy could have shot him. In the street. As shooting him was the objective. They could achieve it. Simply. And they hadn't.

They could have killed Jules Cutter. As he was getting in the car. Such a victory. Such a triumph...

-I still don't understand...

Illya Kuryakin attempted a smile, rolling his eyes.

-You are sometimes a little... dense, my friend.

The fisherman leaned forward.

-They could defeat you, straight. Mr Cutter just got out of the car, in the traffic jam. And...

Napoleon Solo went on.

-The man who abducted you wasted time in a hazy staging... Thanks to him.

-Thanks to his superior.

They thought... He thought first that it was kinf of a sequel to the last events. A new Thrush affair. They were... he was wrong. Bayle and his mole acted almost independently. As irregulars. Not exactly mercenary. They were more or less supported by Thrush.

-Do you mean that Thrush gave them Uncle to keep them occupied ? We are just... a toy ?

Napoleon Solo's tone was obviously doubtful.

-No. Just the contrary, Napoleon. Thrush gave us Bayle and his mole to keep us quiet. And ...

They succeeded. The Quest for the mole... Doubt. Suspicion. Secret. Uncle agents were used to fight against Thrush. Whatever you could think about Thrush, their agents were usually efficient, but logical. Logically efficient. Uncle agents were, too. More efficient. More logical.

This time... It gave him a shivery feeling.

-Bayle put on stage very complicate plans. He wants to create a stir. The greatest, the best. He monopolizes us. Our energy. Our minds.

-If Bayle and the mole are just toys...

-Very dangerous toys...

-If they are toys, we have to look for Thrush real plan.

-Plan ? Not especially one... various other plans... When the cat's away, the mice will play. Bayle and the moles play their part. Thrush... can sometimes help them. Just in case. If they can get rid if us...

It gave him again a shivery feeling. The end justifies the means. Usually.

Not for Bayle. He didn't seem to really mind about the end. On the contrary, the means...

-It gives me a shivery feeling...

Napoleon Solo had whispered. An unusual admission. Illya was right. For the last days, all of them had struggled against the enemy. They ...

-You phrased my thought, Napoleon. This affair ... is not really an affair : What happened...

-Happened because we set it : we gave Bayle all the opportunities he needed... and ...

-He managed to lead us to do what he wanted.

-A diabolic plan.

The fisherman looked at the two Uncle agents. Amazing...

-And now, boy ?

Napoleon Solo got up and answered, with his CEA's tone.

-Now, Mikey, we stop playing. Definitely. We'll go to the Uncle headquarter. You'll come with us. Yes, you will !

-But... Illya's plan...

The Russian shook his head.

-No longer a topical question, Mikey. We are fighting ... two men. No more plot. No more tricks. Thrush will never forgive them. Thrush ... They failed : Cutter escaped. I am alive.

Illya Kuryakin stopped.

-And what about Mr Stellon ?

When April Dancer recovered consciousness, she felt dizzy. As she tried to sit straight, she closed agin her eyes. Someone was drumming in her head. When she could look around her, she didn't see anything. The room was dark. The floor... was cold, damp and obviously dirty. She gulped at the foul smell. She got down on all four until she found a wall. Damp, peeled. And a very small hint of light, from the top. She wasn't bounded. A cellar ? She cursed at herself. So carelessness... Waverly would be mad at her. It was cold, and she was relieved that her coat had been left. Of course, her pockets were empty. She leaned back against the wall, and tried to concentrate herself. The situation had evolved... Illya, Napoleon... Waverly had been qui te calm. He obviously thought that it was just a Russian trick. She hoped he was right. Then, she heard a scratching. Oh, no, please... not that. No rats ! Okay, she admitted : she didn't fear anything, but she really, honestly didn't like rats. She hated them. The scratching turned into tapping. Rats didn't tap. Rats... Rats... didn't learn the Morse code... And the hint of light was growing bright... She got up and walked away the wall. The light came from what was now obviously a window. She couldn't answer, she knew better than shout. She poked around and grabbed some gravel;

Evan Stellon sighed with relief. There was someone, in there ! He was right. He scratched around the small window covered with wire mesh. And he started to tap. He was soon rewarded by the prisoner's answer : gravels were hitting the window. He had got it ! He carefully pushed on the window pane, until it began to move.

April Dancer understood that she had to go away : her rescuer was going to break the window. The pane fell and a head appeared.

-Whoever you are;.. are you okay ?

April Dancer came back in the spot of light. She heard a curse.

-Oh... Miss Dancer... what... what are you doing there ? Well, er... No, it doesn't matter. I have a rope. Do you think that you could manage to...

-Of course, I can ! Who are you ? I can't see you !

A rope fell, a little too short, but she could grip it.

-I am Evan Stellon, miss dancer. I don't know if you rememb...

April Dancer almost dropped the rope.

-Evan Stellon ? Of course, I know you... What the hell are you doing there ?

-I was at the Survival School. Then, I woke up in a cell. They gave me food and water, once a day. The guard was bringing it when we heard noise. I... I ... took advantage of him, and I was looking for a way out. But I... I saw ... Bayle. He was carrying a body. So...

April Dancer creeped through the small opening, and stared at her rescuer : dirty, a week's beard, dishevelled... Sheepish.

She smiled at him.

-Let's go, now. Mr Waverly will commend you, Mr Stellon. You behaved yourself very well.

-Oh, thank you, miss Dancer. Er... Miss dancer ? Where are we, exactly ?


	20. Chapter 20

-Did you tell him ?

-Tell him... what, Mikey ?

Napoleon Solo was obviously at a loss. The fisherman pointed a finger at the glass and pushed it down. The dark haired man blushed a little and genuinely shook his head. Footsteps made him startle. He set the glass upright and headed towards the door. The Russian went out of the bedroom. The blue eyes followed Napoleon Solo and came back to Mikey.

Neither did you, the fisherman thought.

* * *

-Where is your guard ? He surely had a gun and...

Evan Stellon handed the said gun to the young woman, with a childishly proud smile. To be so young...

-Nice, Evan,nice. Now...

She hesitated : perhaps, they should investigate. Look for... Napoleon Solo... and Illya... But she saw reason : they were two. One gun. Bayle could come back. They had to take advantage of the situation. Stellon was waiting, obediently.

-Now, let's go. Of course, he took away my watch, and...

She grabbed his wrist.

-And yours. I don't know the time, Evan, but I have for sure that I'll be late... Mr Waverly hate late people.

As the young man opened his mouth, looking around, she added.

-Whatever the motive, Evan. You'll have to remember...

* * *

-Alex, shouldn't you give notice of the situation ? Our friends will be there, soon, and... some people could have a heart attack...

Alexander Waverly devilishly smiled.

-Our people... are healthy, Jules. And, you... I would like to point out that you didn't really bother about MY heart... Did you ?

Jules Cutter chose to ignore.

-However, I don't want any guard of honor. Not some fireworks ! But...

Waverly's voice straightened. He frowned.

-But Miss dancer is late. Unusually late. She doesn't call... She doesn't answer...

-What ere the odds, Alexander ? Miss Dancer wasn't really part of the late events. There are no reasons...

-Fools always got reasons...

* * *

Mikey drove. Period.

-This is Ben's car. I'll drive. Or, you'll walk, boys. Your choice.

Napoleon Solo gave up, sighed and settled himself in the back seat.

-Illya will show you the way. Not the shortest. Just in case. Oh, Illya... Did you notice ? Your ... Pavel... picked up his taxi, apparently.

-Yes, he did.

_Okay, okay. One day, you'll tell me about ... your Pavel, my friend_. Napoleon Solo couldn't watch out, in this car. So, he closed his eyes, just to relax.

-This job of yours... You like it, Illya.

It wasn't a question.

-Yes, Mikey, I do.

-It's a very dangerous job, boy.

-Some have to make it, Mikey.

-But you could do something else... You are a scientist. You could work in a lab...

-Yes... I could. I could conceive some lethal weapons.

-You could be a teacher...

-Is that a new Achab lecture, Mikey ?

The fisherman peeped at the rear view.

-I guess that Napoleon ... has his own skills, apart from the spy job...

_Interesting. What would I answer ? And more interesting, what are you going to answer, tovarisch _? Napoleon Solo relaxed a little more. As if he was soundly asleep.

-Napoleon... Oh, you'll like that, Mikey. Napoleon is a sailor. A good one. He has a boat...

Good, my friend, good. And ?

-And, Illya ?

-He...

The Russian hesitated.

-He has a real gilft for... clothing. Perhaps he could be a great dress designer.

-No problem... he is asleep...

Both of them discreetly chuckled.

_Illya, my friend... you are walking on a soapy slope_...

-At last...

What else ?

-At last...

Illya Kuryakin was whispering. Napoleon Solo was all ears.

-At last, Napoleon could easily be a... an escort boy. Women, young... more or less... would all fight over him.

He swallowed the affront. Either he went on « sleeping ». Either he strangled straight his partner.

-So, Napoleon is a womanizer... A Don Juan ?

-Oh, yes, he is...

_Laugh, boy, laugh_...

But they weren't really laughing, and they stopped talking for a while, except for Illya's indications. Napoleon Solo opened his eyes. No use to « sleep » any longer. His gaze met Mikey's one in the rear view. Piercing gaze. Suddenly, the fisherman asked, in a suppressed voice.

-Do you mind, Illya ?

-Mind... what ?

-Napoleon... being a womanizer.

-Mikey...

-He is still soundly asleep. Tell me. Do you mind ?

As he spoke, the fisherman's eyes didn't take off Napoleon's ones.

-We'll be there in one or two minutes. Turn on the left.

-Answer me, boy.

-Here we are, Mikey.

-Illya...

-It's... it's none of my business, anyway. Park here.

An imperceptible smile. _Man, you look like the cat who ate the canary... And I am not sure to know why_...

* * *

-We are...

April Dancer looked around her.

-A quarter of an hour to walk. This Bayle is really a damned villain, Evan. He kept us just close by the headquarter.

-He wanted to make fun of us, Miss Dancer.

-Arrogant, he is arrogant. But... you know him, Evan ! You worked for him, didn't you ?

-Er... yes, Miss Dancer...

-April, please. So ?

-He wasn't ... like that, Miss dancer. He was quite ordinary. Even... pleasant. Nicer than the governor, with us.

They walked along the streets. April Dancer chose a roundabout way. Just in case.

* * *

They entered the shop, using the rear entrance. Napoleon Solo hissed at his friend's ear.

-Ready for The Return of the Living Dead, tovarisch ?

-Mr Waverly must have told them, Napoleon.

-I wouldn't bet on it. The Old Man, sometimes... Well, here we are. Let's go !

The receptionist raised her head. Inquiringly and disapprovingly. The first look at the visitors. The « Who-are-you ? » and « Are-you-sure-that you-have-a-good-reason-to-be-there ? » look.

Then, she recognized Napoleon Solo, smiled warmly, and picked up the CEA's ID.

Then, her features melted.

Wide-eyed.

Open-mouthed.

Her breath taken away.

Her fingers dropping Solo's ID.

Napoleon Solo sighed.

-Some people claim that I am the seducer... Maggie, perhaps you could try to breathe, again. It could help. And give us our ID.

The receptionist stared fixedly at the Russian. Her hand mechanically grabbed Napoleon Solo's ID and handed it. Then, she rummaged blindly in a drawer and got out Illya's ID. She handed it. When the Russian's hand brushed against hers, she quivered but didn't let the ID go. She slowly got up, leaned forward, and fixed the ID on Illya's lapel.

Napoleon Solo tapped on Mikey's shoulder.

-You see ? Who is the Casanova ?

Illya Kuryakin grabbed Maggie's hand, and kissed it, with a gentle smile. She blushed, gulped, her breath taken away again. Napoleon Solo sighed noisily.

-Thank you, Maggie.

_Illya, my friend, you are just... purring..._

-You... you are very ... welcome, Mr Kuryakin. I am so happy, sir...

She still stared at him. Napoleon Solo cleared his voice.

-Maggie, a visitor's ID, please, for our friend. Mr Waverly is waiting for us.

The woman turned back into the competent receptionist, and handed him what he asked for.

* * *

Someone knocked at the door, and entered. Or... the contrary. Waverly's secretary. She was wide-eyes, open-mouthed. She babbled something... blushed and took some deep breaths. Then, she slowly repeated.

-The receptionist, Maggie informed me that Mr Solo was coming...

She stopped and looked anxiously at Alexander Waverly. Did he know ?

-And, sir... She told me that...

The usually imperturbable woman desperately sought for words. Jules Cutter took pity on her.

-And Mr Kuryakin is here, too. Yes, he is alive, we know that. It's a real surprise, and...

-And a great satisfaction. Thank you, Lisa.

_The news spreaded through the headquarter faster than the three men. Sheer surprise. Astonishment. Incredulity. Hope. Relief. Satisfaction. Even... delight._

Alexander Waverly nodded at the fisherman, and looked at his two agents, with concern. However, he couldn't hel smiling at their appearance. They were... well... casually dressed. Not so unusual, concerning Illya Kuryakin. But Napoleon Solo... The CEA didn't fail to see the grin.

-Good evening, sir... I am afraid that... we were in a hurry... we should have dress more... conveniently.

Illya Kuryakin's sorry words. His embarrassed tone. The best of their kind. An example... Napoleon Solo rolled his eyes.

_I'll put that on your check, tovarisch_...

But deep in,side, Illya's tease... pleased him. That was his Russian partner : bantering, making a fool of him... He hadn't seen this Illya for ... a long time. However...

-And Miss Dancer, sir ? Isn't she here ? I am sure that Illya will be happy to see her...

Solo's question had an ironical purpose. The two agents were puzzled at the sight of Alexander Waverly. Jules Cutter explained.

-Well, young men... we... concerning miss Dancer... we could have a problem.

* * *

Bayle was wide-eyed. Open-mouthed. His breath taken away. Solo, the old man, from Mousehole, he didn't remember his name, and... the damned blond Russian. Alive. Fully alive... Illya Kuryakin, himself.

And they were entering. Under his very nose. Not worried at all. Relaxed.

That would be the last straw, if...


	21. Chapter 21

-Stop, Evan...

April Dancer took hold of her companion's arm. She looked around. The young man understood and did the same. The street looked desert. Desert and silent. But not dusty, April Dancer thought.

-Evan ?

-Yes, miss Dancer ?

-I have something to tell you. About Illya. Mr Kuryakin.

They headed straight for Del Floria's shop.

-A problem, sir ?

Cutter had toned down his words. Understatement wasn't usually Cutter's field.

Illya Kuryakin turned white. He repeated his partner's question.

-A problem, sir ?

-Miss Dancer is late. Very late.

Euphemism, again ? Waverly cleared the point.

-She should be here, now. And she doesn't answer.

A silence. A heavy one.

Illya's grim voice.

-It's my fault.

A bitter statement.

-Your fault ? And would please tell us, Mr Kuryakin, why ?

Alexander Waverly asked.

But he knew. He knew why. He knew what the young man blamed himself for. He knew that it was ridiculous, wrong. And eventually he knew that the Russian wouldn't easily admit it.

-You must face the fact, sir. I left her. Alone. My plan ...My so brilliant plan...

-Yes, Mr Kuryakin, you had a plan. It was clever, but the situation had evolved... You couldn't know it. Is that clear ? You are not to be blamed. Mr Kuryakin ?

-Yes, sir. That's clear.

The « how interesting » tone. .. Jules Cutter cleared his throat.

-Mr Kuryakin... Miss Dancer isn't a poor innocent lady. You are aware that she is a very competent Section 2 agent, aren't you ? She didn't need any escort.

-Apparently, she did.

Napoleon Solo met Mikey's eyes. Reproving eyes. The CEA forced a chuckle, and came up to his friend.

-She'll scratch your eyes out for that, my friend.

Not even a ghost of a smile. Alexander Waverly cut in the vain argument.

-We have no clues, however. Miss Dancer is late... and...

-She is not late, sir. April... April is never late.

Waverly shook his head with impatience, when someone knocked at the door. Lisa. She craned forward.

-You asked me to tell you, sir. Miss Dancer is here.

Waverly took notice, and just answered.

-Thank you, Lisa.

Illya Kuryakin whispered.

-Eventually, she was late... Just ... late.

-Sir ? Miss Dancer isn't alone. Mr Stellon is with her.

* * *

Alexander Waverly's office was unusually crowded. Surprise. Satisfaction. Congratulations. Cheerfulness. Stellon's obvious delight...

* * *

All froze. Except for two silhouettes. Walking along the street. Quickly, but carefully. Obviously on the alert. Bayle leaned his forehead against the window. He suddenly burst into laughter. A crazy, mad laughter. Hysterical. The icing on the cake... He had foreseen it. April Dancer. Free. Free and with... Stellon. His knees gave way beneath him. How ? Why ? He couldn't think. He could take his gun, and shoot them. Both of them. It wouldn't be of any use. Just to make him feel better. But he saw reason : the situation had evolved... but had it really ? Yes, Kuryakin was alive. Dancer had escaped... And... Stellon. But, then, the mole... the mole was still there. He had to go away. Dancer and Stellon was entering. She would tell... Uncle agents would investigate... probably find his lair...

But he wouldn't give up. At least, he wasn't without resources. Thanks to Simmons...

* * *

Questions. Answers. Many questions, but not so many answers. Stellon had been shot with sleeping darts at the Survival School. He had woke up in New York. In a damp cell. He had fretted himself, tried to escape. Vainly. Until this evening. April Dancer had been abducted in the street. Near the Uncle headquarter. Almost in front of the entrance...

Waverly had got up and put an end to the meeting.

* * *

-Are you sure, Alex ?

Mikey give them a sign and entered the hotel.

-Mikey will be safe...

-Mikey isn't the problem.

-Stellon and Miss Dancer are at the headquarter..

-They could need medical examination..., I know. She was quite pleased with this idea...

-Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin came back home.

-Yes...

-Back to normal life, Jules.

-And Bayle ?

Alexander Waverly looked out the light of the city.

-One man, Jules. Thrush leaders don't forgive failure. Bayle... failed.

-But he almost...

-Almost. And we have been called to order. We have been taught some lessons. We'll be less ... confident. Agents are investigating around the headquarter. Bayle is going to lie low somewhere. He is cornered, Jules. We 'll track him. Thrush will track him. He'd have better disappear.

-Someone told about fools, recently... Nevertheless... there is the mole.

-The mole... oh, yes, the mole...

-You suspected Stellon, didn't you ?

Waverly turned his face slowly to him. Yes, Stellon was a « comfortable » suspect. He had been abducted. Or not. The nasty little Indian... But he was back. And he had help April Dancer to escape.

-He was the ideal suspect, Jules. But, now... I have to think about... tomorrow. I must inform Commissioner Vernon about the situation...

-And ?

-Vernon... can't stomach Simmons's affair... He feels offended. He was not altogether displeased with Mr Kuryakin's death, and with your abduction. He pestered me with that. He'll try to make trouble for us with some investigations, questionings, suspicion... His own little witch hunt..; We know the risks, Jules.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin closed the door and set the alarm. Back to normal life. Shower. Sleep. He was lying still. Restless. Bayle was a disconcerting opponent. Malicious. Ambitious. He wasn't a Thrush agent. Not even a mercenary. A unpleasant thought. A man who fought his own battle. With very little support from Thrush. A man whose boldness had no limits. A fool ? Perhaps. A dangerous one. Waverly had dismissed them with some reassuring words. He was wrong : Bayle wasn't one to got to ground, to give up. And the mole... The young man yawned and eventually fell asleep.

* * *

Napoleon Solo cursed. Waverly's instructions were : back to normal life. Normal life ? What was an Uncle agent's normal life? He had dropped his partner, and headed to his own apartment. Many questions. Some answerable. The others... Bayle... was Bayle : dangerous, clever, efficient. But ...foolishly daring. As you knew it, you could handle... But the mole... Solo suspected Stellon. Yes, the boy had been quite nice, in Mousehole. But... A sharp little voice hissed, the honesty's voice. « You suspected him because he was a very convenient suspect. » He had. Stellon, however, was apparently innocent. The sharp voice hissed again. Okay. Stellon ... was innocent. He had helped April to escape... Napoleon Solo grimly thought about ... who betrayed them. Of course, the little voice kept silent. Back to normal life... The CEA braked suddenly. What would they have done, in « normal life » ? Illya Kuryakin was perfectly capable of coping with enemy on his own. As he was. But in normal life, they were partners. Wise or not, Napoleon Solo made a U turn.

* * *

_It was silent._

_It was desert._

_It was dusty. No, not dusty. Sandy._

_A strange light. Growing brighter. _

_Sunrise..._

_Wreckage. All around him, now._

_He staggered towards a dilapidated wall,and leaned against it._

_Staircase._

_Silent, desert, dusty staircase._

_Darkness. Footsteps._

_He had to go down._

_He knew that place._

_He knew that corridor._

_Wreckage, again. _

_A hand. Bruised. Scratched. Bloodied._

_Rocks, gravel..._

_And just a hand hanging out._

_He pulled, he pushed, he lifted, he tore._

_Hairs. Dark hairs._

_A face. Bruised, scratched, bloodied._

_No._

_And someone sneering at his ears._

_« You didn't make it ! »_

_And some hands ruthlessly grabbing him._

Some hands shaking him.

-Mr Kuryakin, wake up, immediately ! Mr Kuryakin !

He knew this voice. He had heard it, once. And it wasn't a friendly voice, no matter how soft its tone was. His hand slid under the pillow. Vainly.

-Tststs, Mr Kuryakin... Open your eyes. You are fully awake, don't try to fool me !

The Russian blinked. The man had put on the light. It was still the night. It was his bedroom. He was... at home. The man stood beside him, playing with his gun. He knew this man. Middle aged, plain dark suit. A welcoming look. Alone.

-You... You are not real !

-You bet ?

The man grabbed a glass and threw it on the floor.

-Did you think about my proposal ? Safety. Peace. Happiness. Your Commission will investigate again, and... well, the Russian could be their favourite suspect... You experienced their jails, didn't you ?

The man stared at him with a very unpleasant commiseration. He remembered that. And it was still very unpleasant, because the man looked genuine.

-You are not...

The man took some steps forwards and aimed at the young man's head.

-You bet ?


	22. Chapter 22

The voice was still soft. But cold. Soulless. The man wasn't real. It was a dream, a nightmare. It was, the first time. So, it was, again...

-The problem, Mr Kuryakin...is... what is dream ? What is reality ? You have some events for sure. And what, if they are just... delusions ? You hesitate ? You are right.

The man put down the gun. He looked so relaxed. Ingratiating. So self-confident. He was almost twenty years older then the Russian. Everything but an athlete. He was alone. No guards, this time. No fear, however. No wariness.

-As an example, Mr Kuryakin... You believe that you saved your partner's like, don't you ? In the jail ? Just after the explosion ? Are you really sure you did ? What were the odds, Mr Kuryakin ? You are not stupid. And you are a scientist. You went through hell to bring him out. You found him... in a labyrinth. He was buried under various wreckage. But still alive. You, wounded, panting, choking, blind with darkness, smoke, dust, ... you, Mr Kuryakin, by a miracle, you lifted the steel door, and took back your friend to the living.

The man watched him. Still looking compassionate. But Illya Kuryakin refused to listen; Yes. By a miracle... A sort of miracle. He could name this miracle : confidence, trust, luck... hope, friendship. And, yes, Napoleon Solo was alive. He had saved him.

-You didn't make it, Mr Kuryakin. I am sorry to tell you. Your friends found you, almost dying, next to his body.

-No !

-Yes. You don't want to remember, but that's the truth.

Illya Kuryakin sat straight on the bed. The man didn't move. He didn't recoil. He just chuckled, when he saw the Russian wincing.

-You should ease up, young man.

-No !

He felt dizzy : he wanted to hit this man, with all his heart, but his strength amazingly deserted him. The man threw the gun aside, grabbed him by his shoulders, and started to shake him. Ruthlessly.

-You didn't make it. He is dead.

Illya Kuryakin heaved, his breath taken away. As if he was drowning.

* * *

At the very moment he entered the apartment, Napoleon Solo knew that something was wrong. He heard shocks. Cries. Damned Waverly and his optimism... He rushed into the bedroom.

He held his gun, but the room was deserted, except for his partner, rolling and tossing on the bed. Splinters of glass on the floor. Illya's gun, too. He looked around once more time and came up to his friend. He had first to ease him Then, to wake him up.

He grabbed Illya's arms and flattened him on the bed. It was amazingly easy. He released the pressure on the limp body.

-Illya. Illya, wake up. Open your eyes. Illya ! You'll be fine !

The Russian was dripping with sweat, but as Napoleon Solo checked it, he wasn't feverish. When he looked again at his partner's face, his eyes met wide open blue eyes. He read ... incredulity. Anxiety. And... suspicion. He smiled reassuringly and combed his hand through the dishevelled and damp hair.

-It's me, Illya. Everything is okay. You made a nightmare. But now, you'll be fine.

Napoleon Solo didn't worry; His partner needed just time. A few minutes, a few seconds to get back his right mind. He would relaxed and...

-What are you doing here ?

Anxiety. Suspicion. The older agent put his hand on his friend's shoulder.

-Let go of my arm. Don't... don't touch me !

-Illya, it's me. Napoleon. Illya, please.

The Russian wrenched himself free and sat back with his legs tucked under him.

-I know who you are. Leave me alone Sorry for the trouble.

His partner spoke flatly. Napoleon Solo ignored the words, and headed to the bathroom.

-Where the hell are you going ?

-I am looking for a towel, partner mine, and perhaps some aspirin.

-I am fine. Leave me alone.

-You say... But you don't look it, Illya. And, no, I won't leave you alone.

Suspicion. Anger, now.

Suddenly, the young man jumped out of the bed and staggered towards the bathroom. Green. His hand clamped over his mouth. He would probably have tried to slam the door in his partner's face, but the older agent followed close on his heels. Illya Kuryakin bent over the pan an threw up. Desperately retching. His partner wrapped his arm around his chest to support him, and whispered reassuring words. Words... didn't mind. The voice, the tone. A sort of mantra. At last, the young agent sat back and collapsed against his friend's chest. Gasping for air. Napoleon Solo grabbed a towel and gently rubbed his face. He waited for Illya to get his breath back.

-You could do with some water, okay ?

He helped him to the basin and gave him a glass of water. The Russian took it and rinsed his mouth.

-I am fine now. Please, leave me alone.

Napoleon Solo worried, but forced a banter.

-Illya, partner mine, you drivel ! Let's go back to your bedroom. Are you okay ? Do you want some more water ?

No answer. Of course. He gently took hold of his arm.

-Illya, let's go, now. We can't stay here all the night.

Illya Kuryakin resisted at first but eventually gave up. Napoleon Solo dragged him into the bedroom and settled him on the pillows. His partner didn't look at him. Blue eyes. Devoid of all feeling, now. With a faraway look. The older agent sat beside and turned his friend's face towards him. No opposition. No more suspicion. No more anxiety. Just... indifference.

-Illya... tell me. What happened ?

-Please, Napoleon...

Napoleon Solo overacted an offended sigh.

-No, Illya. I already told y...

-Napoleon...

-Definitely, no, Illya. Now, you are going to sleep, as a good little boy. Tomorrow...

-Napoleon... Are you ... alive ?

* * *

April Dancer looked daggers at the doctor. He had just told her that she was fine; Yes, she knew. She knew that she could be at her home. But Waverly's orders were clear : she had to stay here, at the headquarter. Thank you, sir ! Of course, the « young men » had been dismissed. They were peacefully at their home. She didn't ask about Stellon. He was a grown up. And she suspected that Waverly wanted her to babysit the guy. She shrugged her shoulders and stormed out of the Medical. She headed towards one of the « bedrooms »...

_He helped you. No, be honest : he rescued you. If not, you would still be in that damp cell. She sighed and made a U-turn in the corridor_.

* * *

Bayle carefully closed the door behind him. The apartment was very small but well stuffed. Simmons had a mind for organization. Sometimes. The real problem : what could he do ? First, he had to report to Thrush. Or not. If he did, things were simple. He wouldn't be blamed. Thrush rarely blamed you, if you failed. No. Thrush... fired you. Not in the figurative meaning.

If he didn't... He would get a little time. Oh, Thrush would know, anyway. Later. It might be sufficient. Secondly... he had to get in touch with... the mole.

* * *

Napoleon Solo was taken aback. The question was amazing. His partner's face... disconcerting. Blue eyes pierced him. The older agent raised his hands, and took hold of his friend's ones.

-I am alive, Illya. You can feel it.

The Russian shyly squeezed the hands and bitterly smiled.

-Yes, I can. But he... he told me...

Napoleon Solo frowned. The apartment was desert. Safe.

-Who told you ?

-He told me that ... I didn't make it. That... I didn't save you. That... they find me next to your body, in the prison. And you were dead.

Illya Kuryakin released his grip and lay back on the pillows.

-But... you are not.

All but convinced. Napoleon Solo rubbed his chin. He pretended not to be worried at all. But he was. Illya Kuryakin was ... well, he acted as he did, in Mousehole, when they had found him. Distant. And the worst : unsure. Unsure about his friend. Unsure about ... himself. Thrush drug, again. Perhaps. He hoped so. If not... Illya's future as a section 2 agent... as an Uncle agent...

He took a deep breath.

-Illya, listen to me : you foolishly risked your life and you saved me. By a miracle, you saved me. But you made it and I am alive. We are. Both. Is that clear ?

-Trust. Luck, hope and friendship.

The Russian was out of his mind ... Napoleon Solo hesitated. His partner shook his head.

-Not a miracle, Napoleon. I wanted to tell him : our trust, your luck, my hope and our friendship saved us.

-Illya... you were alone in your apartment...

Napoleon Solo bit his lip. He should have known better... The faint smile on his friend's face disappeared.

-It ... frightens me, Napoleon. It... was the same man I saw in your grandma's house. The same man, the same suit. The same offer. But this time, he was ... angry. He saw that I didn't want to believe him. I repeated that he wasn't real, but...

-And he wasn't, my friend. You were right. You knew it.

-He grabbed me, Napoleon. As you did.

-He is just a nightmare, Illya. Nothing more than a nightmare. And the Thrush drug... You seem to be extremely sensitive. You react badly to it. That's all.

Napoleon Solo soflty chuckled. Illya Kuryakin peered at him with surprise.

-You know, partner mine... I never saw you fear anything in your life as an Uncle agent... You can't fear a dream !

Illya Kuryakin looked at him thoughtfully.

_I don't fear anything... but to lose you, my friend._ But he didn't phrase it.

-Now, as I already told you, you are going to be a good boy, and sleep, Illya. You need some rest. We need some rest.

-Napoleon, please...

-Shhhht, Illya.

* * *

Evan Stellon was reading. Sullen. April Dancer came up to him, sheepish.

-Evan, are you okay ? Do you want some coffee? Some tea ?

-No, thank you, miss Dancer.

-April, please. I wanted to thank you, Evan. You rescued me and you behave yourself extremely well. Jules Cutter can be very proud.

-Yes...

Strange answer. Was the young man sulking ? No, he looked really puzzled. Oh... she understood.

-Evan, you are not to be blamed. Illya has been abducted, Cutter himself has been abducted... I have been... There was nothing you could do. Jules Cutter values you, really.

Evan Stellon put his book on the table, obviously worried.

-I could have... I should have done something, miss Dancer. But ... I didn't dare.

-For the last time, April. What should have you done, Evan ?

-I should have reported to Mr Waverly sooner.


	23. Chapter 23

Napoleon Solo pulled the sheet on his friend's body, and switched off the light. Then he settled himself in the armchair. The moonlight bathed the room, and he silently got up, to draw the curtains.

-No, please.

He stopped and looked at his friend.

-Okay, Illya. Do you need something ? Are you thirsty ? You should really try to sleep.

Silence, again. His partner lay on his back, eyes wide opened, staring at the shadows moving on the ceiling. Fully awake. At least, he didn't ask him to leave.

-I was buried under this steel door, and other wreckage... I couldn't move, Illya. I could hardly breathe. There was smoke. Dust. Darkness. And...

No reaction. No mark of interest.

-And I knew that the walls, around me, would collapse, sooner or later.

Still nothing. The same shallow breath. The same faraway look.

-All I had was this amazing challenge : guess how I would die. I knew that... I was to die. Either of suffocation. Either crushed. I knew that it was absolutely hopeless. That no one would come to save me, this time. And you know what, my friend ?

Well...

-I didn't want any rescue.

A move. His friend's face turned towards him ...

-Because if someone came... I had for sure that it would be you. And that you would probably die with me.

Napoleon Solo walked towards the window and looked out.

-I felt powerless, Illya There was nothing I could do, except... breathe. Breathe? As deeply as I could. Breathe and swallow smoke and dust. And suffocate. And eventually die. On my own. Willingly. I made up my mind to do that, Illya. Just before you entered and found me.

-You are talking nonsense. You are a fighter. You never give up. You wouldn't have.

He had recovered his speech...

-You are right.

Napoleon Solo swung around.

-Something held me back. Hope, Illya. An absurd hope. You would come. A preposterous certainty. You would save me. And...

He chuckled.

-And the thought that you would be mad at me, if I gave up.

-And you scolded me ! You...

-I asked you to leave me alone. I gave you an order. And, of course, as usual, you didn't pay attention. You... you sat down, next to me, grabbed my hand, and peacefully declared that we would wait together until ... the end.

-I... I couldn't have made it back alone, Napoleon.

Silence, again.

-Why did you tell me about ?

The voice was strained, again.

-You saved me, Illya. You saved both of us. You were not late. That is reality.

-Is it ? I don't know, Napoleon.

Napoleon Solo cursed.

-The hell with that, Illya. We'll cope with Bayle, the mole... and the nightmares !

Silence. No answer.

Napoleon Solo wasn't worried anymore. He was frightened. Illya looked as if he was somewhere else. Worse. Someone else. Honestly, the older agent had to admit it. His friend, since the last events, had been the mere shadow of his former self. A convincing shadow. Convincing enough, according to the Uncle doctors. But what happened recently has pushed him over the edge. Those dreams... this man who offered him just... a normal life, was perhaps nothing else than the outward sign of his own wishes. A normal life. A family...

Mikey... Mikey was right. Illya was a scientist. A brilliant one. He could easily work in a lab. But... not for the Uncle. Nevermore.

-I can't keep on doing that, Napoleon.

Napoleon Solo frowned.

-What the hell are you talking about, Illya ?

The Russian sat straight on the bed. The dark haired agent stood against the faint light. He could see his friend's face. So serious. So resigned.

-I can't do it anymore. The job. I can't be an agent any longer, Napoleon. You can't rely on me. I am not even able to tell reality from dream.

-Illya...

-I'll resign, Napoleon. There is nothing else I can do.

Napoleon Solo burst into a violent anger. He feigned it, more or less.

-You won't resign, my Russian friend : you'll quit. Say it, partner mine. Should I say « ex-partner » ? After all these years... I thought I knew you. But, no. You fear nightmares ! And you run away, like a whining child. You are a quitter ! A coward !

No one could tell that to Illya Kuryakin... and survive. Napoleon Solo stiffened, waiting his partner's reaction.

-So, go away. Leave me alone.

* * *

-All the people admired you... Now, Alex, you are definitely their hero. A legend !

A legend ! Oh, he could do without that ! He didn't deserve any greeting. Whatever happened... happened, and he didn't play a part in it. He tossed and turned in his bed.

They were delighted. Thrilled. What thrilled them worried him. He was careful, very careful about miracles. And... all that was amazing. Jules Cutter's story... Evan Stellon's story. Jules Cutter slept in the next bedroom. Jules Cutter was beyond suspicion. April Dancer wasn't pleased with his order, but he knew that she would take time to talk with the young man.

Back to normal life ? Come on ...

Despite his own words, Alexander Waverly was still doubtful. Suspicious. This affair involved people he trusted; Evan Stellon would have been a quite satisfying culprit. He was not. Probably. Jules Cutter valued the young Stellon. Jules Cutter knew men. And... Illya Kuryakin... obviously relieved, delighted to see April Dancer and Evan Stellon alive.

* * *

-You should have ... what, Evan ?

The young man looked around.

-We are alone, Evan. And this is the headquarter of the Uncle. The safest place in the world !

He peered at the door, behind her. April Dancer sighed and closed it. He was troubled.

-I am not sure I can tell you, Miss Dancer.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin got up, and headed to the door. He had spoken softly, but his face betrayed his feeling : sadness.

-Illya, please, I...

-You...?

-I didn't mean it. What I said... was just to bully you.

-But I meant what I said. Leave me alone.

The two men stood, face to face. Napoleon Solo took some steps aside, so that he wouldn't be against the light. He wanted his friend to see his face.

-You won't resign, Illya. No, listen to me : you won't leave the Uncle, because you love that job.

The Russian startled.

-Of course, you, my frien, you could do many things else : research, teaching... Not as the poor me : dress designer... or...

Napoleon Solo conceitedly postured.

-Escort boy..

The Russian bit his lip but he couldn't help smiling. A ghost of a smile... but a smile..

-Comediante !

-Oh, yes, thank you ! You forgot it ! I could be an actor !

Illya Kuryakin went on.

-You were not asleep... I suspected it... But as you didn't react to the dress designer...

Silence again. Napoleon Solo broke it.

-Illya, my friend, there is nothing to be done and said : you can't resign. Anyway...

He came up to him.

-Anyway... you can't do that now. We have to get rid of Bayle. And I need my partner, Illya. So you are going to forget your melancholic Slav way of thinking for awhile. I told you : we'll cope with that. Together. Back to normal life.

-Arrogant, self-assured American.

-You forgot : optimistic, my gloomy Russian. So, Illya ?

The said gloomy Russian headed to the window and looked out.

-And if I am unable to fix it, Napoleon ?

-No chance.

He walked towards his friend, and stood behind him. He carefully laid a hand on Illya Kuryakin's shoulder.

-Everything will be okay. Trust me.

He heard his partner sighing, and felt his body relaxing.

-Napoleon ?

-Yes ?

-Thank you.

* * *

April Dancer smiled and nudged the young man.

-Evan... I trusted you, in this house. You could have been...

-The mole ?

Evan Stellon's voice turned harsh. Instantaneously, he clamped his hand on his mouth and blushed.

-I ... am sorry, Miss Dancer. I didn't want to yell, but...

He peeked at her with a miserable look.

-I am not stupid. I thought about it. I... I am sure that you, all of you... you suspect me to be the mole... Except..

April Dancer dragged Evan Stellon to the table, and motioned him to sit down. He kept silent, his lips clenched. She ended his phrase.

-Except for ... Illya ? Illya Kuryakin ?

The young man nodded. April Dancer filled two mugs with coffee and sat down in front of him. She had to be honest.

-You are right, Evan. Whichever way we turned, we came to the same conclusion : there was a mole, and unfortunately, the mole was probably one of us.

-Why not ... the guy from Mousehole ?

Evan Stellon spoke with a bitter voice, now.

-You... you were the most satisfying suspect, Evan. But it was quite unfair. And you are right again : Illya... Illya values you. He couldn't believe it.

They sipped their coffee, and kept silent. An uncomfortable silence. April Dancer felt uneasy. The young man pursed his lips.

-Evan, we were wrong. You rescued me : we know that you are innocent. We trust you. We'll have to think about what happened, but you have to be sure of thet : we trust you.

Evan Stellon, at last, smiled at her with obvious relief. Then, he frowned.

-Evan ?

-I don't know...

-You give me the cold shoulder... I can understand, Evan. But...

Evan Stellon took a deep breath.

-It happened at the Survival School, miss Dancer. I saw a man. Twice. I knew him, well, er... his face. I had already met him. At the jail. With Mr Bayle.

April Dancer sighed impatiently and flatly replied.

-All you had to do was to report to Jules Cutter, Evan !

The young man shook his head, sheepish.

-That... That, miss Dancer, I couldn't...

The young woman stared at him with a complete lack of understanding. Evan Stellon went on, whispering.

-The man... I saw him twice... He was talking with Mr Cutter. And... they were very... discreet...


	24. Chapter 24

Napoleon Solo just squeezed the shoulder and they remained motionless for a long time. Imperceptibly, Illya Kuryakin leaned against his partner's body. The older agent chuckled and gently whispered, as he noticed the eyes closed.

-Illya, my friend, indulge me, let's go to bed. I know that you are able to fell asleep anywhere... including standing up against a wall... or apparently against me... But I can't...

* * *

Evan Stellon relentlessly watched his mug. He had said what he had to say. He didn't really expect April Dancer to believe him. But he had no choice. He felt her look on him.

-Evan...

He concentrated himself on the white mug, rubbing the earthenware, as to wipe a mark.

-Evan, do you realize what you are suggesting ?

He raised his head, meeting April Dancer's piercing look. He clenched his fists, breathed, and defiantly answered.

-I don't suggest anything, miss Dancer. You asked. I told.

April dancer was disturbed. She thoughtfully stared at the young man. He didn't avert his eyes...

-Evan... Jules Cutter moved heaven and earth in order to help Illya. I think you remember that. He went to see him, in the jail. He could have made contact with some people, there, and...

Evan Stellon cut in, ruthlessly.

-You don't understand, miss. This man... didn't work there. When he came, he was a visitor, as Mr Cutter. He met either the governor, or Mr Bayle.

-What's his name ?

Evan Stellon rolled his eyes.

-I don't know, miss Dancer. I was just a guard...I worked mostly at the entrance. I saw people, but they didn't pay attention, and they didn't talk to me. I... worked in the Security wing for one week, when I have been asked to take Mr Kuryakin to the governor's office, because he was going to be freed. Then, I ..

-Did you see Jules Cutter and this man at the same time, there ?

He sighed.

-I told you, miss. When I worked outside, I just saw people entering, going away. I sometimes led them to the governor's office. Or to Mr Bayle's... No, I had never seen Mr Cutter and this man together, in the jail. But ... it could have happened.

April Dancer felt more and more uneasy. Stellon's story was based on « I saw... ». She frowned, as an unpleasant thought came in her mind.

-Even, what happened, yet, at the Survival School ? You say you saw the same man ? But what were you doing next to Cutter's office ?

She stared at him, looking for some trouble. She saw some embarrassment.

-Evan ?

-The first time... we had been told that ... Mr Kuryakin.. had been shot. I... I wanted to ask ... if I could attend... well... Mr Kuryakin's funeral.

The young man whispered, and ended as if he was out of breath. So obviously confused... So obviously genuine... April Dancer softened her tone.

-Evan, what happened ?

-I saw the man, miss Dancer. He was talking with Mr Cutter. They walked towards the office. I... sheltered myself behind a bush. Then, I saw him twice, with Mr Cutter.

-Then ? So, were you watching at Cutter ?

He muttered, sheepishly, blushing with confusion.

-Yes, miss. And eventually, I decided to report to Mr Waverly. I managed to call him but...

April Dancer drummed her fingers impatiently. She thanked again the Old Man for the gift.

-Miss Dancer ?

-Yes, Evan ?

-Mr Cutter... can't be a traitor, miss. It's... Mr Cutter ! When we entered Mr Waverly's office... Mr Cutter was really surprised, and... he was glad to see me.

The young woman was abashed. Evan Stellon was... so genuinely naive. She realized that he didn't want to accuse Jules Cutter. He just wanted to be... reassured.

-You are right, Evan. Jules Cutter was glad to see you. They were. Tomorrow, you'll talk with Mr Waverly about that. Don't worry.

She forced a gentle smile at the young man, who looked relieved. She wasn't. For... she remembered Jules Cutter's face... when he had seen Evan Stellon. Surprise, yes. Doubt... distrust... and something like... trouble. In a blink of an eye. Later, satisfaction, cheer...

* * *

A debt. He owed a part of his life to this man. No, he owed him his whole life. It was uncomfortable. Because in his world, gratitude wasn't the rule. It was a debt of ... honour. He had told the man he would remember. He knew that the man didn't expect such a promise to be kept. He had surely forgotten it. But this was about ... conscience. Conscience... It wasn't the rule, either. He sighed with a guilty relief. Someone had said that one's debt died with him. It was about the debtor. Any way... if the creditor died... not so bad. The phone rang.

* * *

-I am not sleeping, Napoleon...

-Yes, you are, my friend. You are exhausted. Come on.

The Russian let his friend drag him towards the bed, but he just sat down.

-You said that everything was okay... but you don't believe a word of it, do you ?

Napoleon Solo sat beside him and turned in frustration to his partner. But Illya Kuryakin's face was just... concerned.

-What do you mean, Illya ?

-Back to normal life, my friend. Nothing happened... I came back, Jules Cutter came back, Mickey came back, April came back, and...

The Russian stopped, obviously waiting for his partner to end the list.

-Evan Stellon came back.

-Yes.

Blue eyes insistently stared at Solo's. The older agent averted his look, cursing the moonlight.

-Evan Stellon, Napoleon... was such a convenient suspect. I know that, and... I know why, but...

-But you couldn't believe it.

Illya Kuryakin sighed.

-This place... was inhuman, Napoleon.

The older agent couldn't help startling.

-You can't guess it, my friend. I ... I had been abducted, locked in dreadful places. I had been beaten, tortured. I can tell you. The worst of our enemies, Napoleon, is more pitiful than...

Napoleon Solo froze. He listened wordlessly. It was the first time that his partner spoke about the jail so... genuinely, and so painfully.

-Thrush torturers, executioners... are enemies. They hate us. They push us. We can resist, we can fight. There...

The Russian hesitated, but reluctantly went on.

-There, Napoleon, I didn't exist. They didn't harm me. Physically. Never. Nothing. No one you could fight against. They were always... at a arm's length. They ignored me.

Silence.

-And that light...

-Illya, I saw it. Evan ... Evan showed me the cell. He told me.

Illya Kuryakin shook his head. He had to tell it.

-They never talked to me. But... they watched me, Napoleon. They watched me. Night and day. All the time. Whatever I did, they watched me. When I ate. When... I showered. When... I ... had to...

The Russian's voice faltered. Napoleon Solo felt powerless. However, he whispered.

-Don't, Illya. Don't. I saw the cell... I understand.

-You don't. I should have fought them. But I gave up. I...

-They would have shot you, Illya. You couldn't escape.

-I could have begged them to kill me, Napoleon. But I was elsewhere. Everything seemed so... useless to me. And I knew that I deserved my fate : I was a murderer. A traitor.

Napoleon Solo yelled.

-No, you were not !

-I believed I was, Napoleon. And Evan Stellon... He said my name. Just my name. Then, he talked to me. He was... polite. Gentle. Without motivation. It was no use to him. He told you about Mikey and Mousehole. He can't be the mole...

Illya Kuryakin tried to stand upright but felt himself restrained by his partner.

-I am grateful towards him, Illya, for all he did for you.

-But you still suspect him. I can read you so well, Napoleon. You can't try and fool me.

-You don't read suspicion, partner mine. You read uncertainty.

* * *

The phone rang and it jolted Bayle back to his senses. He hesitated, but eventually chose to answer : It could be the mole. It could be... his Trush correspondent.

-So, Mr Bayle... you wouldn't, by any chance, have anything to tell us ?

The voice was harsh. Harsh... and urgent. The man was upset. So ... he already knew...

-Mr Bayle ? Are you still there ? Didn't I hear, recently, about Mr Kuryakin's death ? So, could you explain how the said dead Mr Kuryakin could be back to the Uncle ? Fully alive ? No, apparently... you can't.

Bayle cleared his throat.

-A combination of circumstances, sir. But I'll handle the situation, myself. I'll..

-Oh, no, no, you won't, Bayle. Listen carefully : you know and I know what happened. You failed. We hate failure. But I'll be indulgent with you. You are going to... disappear. Really. This affair, well, we'll say : end game.

Bayle was taken aback.

-But...

-End game, Mr Bayle. Definetely.


	25. Chapter 25

Illya Kuryakin was sitting cross-legged on the bed, leaning against the wall. Napoleon Solo didn't move, with the back to his friend. They kept silent. None of them was dozing.

-Evan Stellon was there for you, Illya. So was Mikey.

Lost in thought, Illya Kuryakin startled. The voice was amazingly... absent-minded.

-They helped you. All of them. Stellon, Mikey, Cutter, April... and Waverly, of course.

The Russian was at a loss for words. Napoleon Solo was just ... phrasing. He talked to.. himself. Suddenly, the older agent got up.

-It's late, Illya. You were right. I'll leave you alone... and go back home.

And his friend saw him walking towards the door , picking up his jacket.

-Napoleon , What the hell are you doing ?

Napoleon Solo stopped, and answered, still the back to his partner. At least... he had stopped.

-Just what you asked for two hours, Illya.

The voice was now strangely strained. He wasn't angry. Illya Kuryakin came up to him, next to the door, and took hold of his arm. Napoleon Solo stiffened, but didn't turned towards his partner.

-Look at me, Napoleon. Tell me. What's wrong ?

-Let me go, Illya. Everything is all right. I am just a little tired.

Illya Kuryakin released his grip, but let his hand on the arm.

-Look at me. Please. Yes, they helped me. All of them. I know it. And, Napoleon, so did you. As you did, this night. As... you always did.

Napoleon Solo took a deep breath, and gently pulled away his friend's hand. At last, he turned to him.

-If I had been locked in this jail...

-Oh, please, no, Napoleon ! You already told me that.

-No chance, Illya. You would have found a way to ...

-No, no, no, Napoleon. I wouldn't. You did what you could. More than you had to. You saved my life... and I saved yours. As usual, my friend. We are so good at it. Aren't we ?

The Russian gave a meaningful smile.

-It's late, Napoleon. Too late. I have a spare room. This way, my friend.

Napoleon Solo sighed.

-No, Illya, I can't...

-No choice.

Illya Kuryakin's countenance was surprisingly calm. He gently smiled, but his voice didn't allow any discussion.

* * *

Alexander Waverly woke up. He felt dizzy, as you feel when you sleep soundly, and then, suddenly awake. The house was silent, but the number one section one, pulled his gun out. You could be out of the field... As long as you worked for the Uncle, you had your gun under your pillow. It made his wife mad. Not very romantic. Not very safe. He got up, grabbed his flashlight and walked out of the bedroom. He didn't know exactly what happened. Probably nothing. Probably he was going to make a fool of himself, if he woke up Jules Cutter. Footsteps? Voices ? He had heard something... or he was getting too old for those games. He slowly went down to the living room. Eventually, he lit up. The house was still silent, and he was obviously the only one wandering along. He sighed and sat down on his armchair. Too old for the job... Retirement... Amazingly, there were rules, concerning the agents. Not really concerning the number one section one. Waverly bitterly shrugged his shoulders. Apparently, people relied on the leader's own judgement. Barely logical. Hardly wise. « The Old Man »... Waverly sneered at himself. He knew that they called him « the Old Man ». A sign ? No, the name went with the job... « The Old Man » could be 40 years old... And perhaps, some day... it could be ... a woman. Waverly shook his head. It was late, and he needed to sleep. His communicator suddenly beeped. He jerked, and caught it.

-Mr Waverly ? Is everything okay, sir ?

Of course... they saw the light... they checked. He sighed.

-Yes, yes, everything is okay.

-So, that's fine, sir. I am sorry the noise disturbed you.

-The noise ?

-Yes, Mr Cutter had to go back to the Survival School, but he didn't want to wake you up.

-What do you say ?

Alexander Waverly foamed. He looked daggers at the poor guards sheepishly standing in front of him. So, Jules Cutter had left the house. Apparently, he had been called back to the School. And those stupid... just helped him ! He forced himself to calm down. Of course, those men knew Jules Cutter. They ... they had no reason to suspect him. The governor of the Survival School. One of the Old Man's closest friend... He was the one to be blamed. He dismissed the guards, with a soft tone.

Cutter's face. When he had seen Evan Stellon. Surprise. Doubt. Trouble, Then, smile, satisfaction, cheer. It could be because they lose the most convenient suspect. It could be something else. Cutter had probably his communicator... Of course, he had. He didn't answer.

* * *

-Illya, I...

They wouldn't know what Napoleon Solo was to say. His communicator beeped.

-Mr Solo ?

-Yes, sir.

Automatically, Illya Kuryakin went back to the bedroom, in order to dress up. If Alexander waverly called in the middle of the night... Well... he looked at his watch. A little after the middle of the night, it was rarely to ask you if you slept well, or to wish you a good night. Napoleon Solo followed him, still listening at Waverly.

-Did you call the airport ? The School, sir ?

-Of course not, Mr Solo. I don't want to create a buzz... I'll call them tomorrow. I want you to pick up Mr Kuryakin. You'll check the airport.

-But...

-Jules Cutter is probably on his way to the Survival School. His communicator may be out of order. If I call... and if he is not... We have to be discreet, Mr Solo? And careful. Our friends from the Commission would like that...

-Oh, yes, sir. We leave immediately.

Illya Kuryakin was waiting for Solo's explanations. The older agent gave him notice of Waverly's worry, while they left the apartment and picked up the car.

-Napoleon...

-Yes, Illya, I know.

* * *

April Dancer had to choose one way or another. She could wait. Evan Stellon would talk to Waverly... A few hours later. She could do something. Right now. She could report. Immediately. In the other hand... she wasn't eager to call Alexander Waverly in the middle of the night. Stellon's story was disturbing, yes.. But it was also hazy. Logically, she had no option, but to contact... the CEA. He would probably be mad at her, in the beginning. Or she could call Illya... But she wasn't one to bear a grudge...

-Napoleon ?

-April ?

They kept silent. April was now reporting to the Old Man. Illya Kuryakin drove, and his partner stared at the strained profile. The Russian looked straight on. He felt Napoleon Solo's gaze, but concentrated himself on the road.

-Jules Cutter doesn't answer, Napoleon. We are wasting time.

-What do you mean ?

Illya Kuryakin rubbed his forehead.

-That's what I wanted to tell you : if Jules Cutter was on his way to the School, he would answer. He has his communicator. No doubt. If he doesn't answer...

-If he doesn't...

-He must be in trouble.

-Or we... could be in trouble, Illya.

No comment. Just a pout.

Beep, again.

Waverly. They were wasting time. He had called the airport. Cutter wasn't there. They had to come back to the headquarter. Illya Kuryakin made a U-turn without a word.

* * *

They were all in Waverly's office. Again. Exhausted. Evan Stellon sat beside the sketcher, and depicted the man he had seen. Waverly puffed at his empty pipe. April Dancer and Napoleon Solo sipped their coffee. Illya Kuryakin leaned against the wall, with a faraway look.

* * *

Disappear. « I'll be indulgent with you... » Bayle could hardly breathe. Indulgent ? No. Stupid. No, not stupid. The shock had hit him like a punch in the stomach. But now, he could think again. This man should have been mad at him. He should have threatened him. He should have ... And he hadn't. He had ... scolded him, as if he was a naughty child. It was not logical. The man wasn't really angry... He sounded bothered. With... Bayle was almost sure of it... with a hint of relief. This man had his own secrets... At least, he was safe, for the moment. And he had been given a free hand. End game ? How interesting... But he wanted to play. Again. And he would win.

* * *

The sketcher put the sheet of paper on the desk. Evan Stellon leaned forward.

-Yes, sir. That's him.

Napoelon Solo picked up the drawing, peeped at it, and handed it to Alexander Waverly. The Old Man stared at it, then gave it back to his CEA.

-Mr Solo ? Check our files, with Mr Kuryakin.

Napoleon Solo nodded, and they went out of the office. At least, the computer would help them to consult all the files.

-Illya ? Are you okay ? You look terrible...

-So do you, Napoleon. Show me this paper. Thanks to the computer, we...

Napoleon Solo looked at his partner with surprise. What he saw made him froze. The young man had bleached, his hands shook, and he dropped the paper. He staggered back to the wall. Out of breath. On the edge to pass out.

-Illya !

-I... know this man, Napoleon. I know him. It's the man I saw in my dream. It's him.

-Illya...

-Do you understand ? He ... he is real. He exists.


	26. Chapter 26

And he burst into laughter. Napoleon Solo shivered.. All that was enough to drive anyone mad. He came up to his friend and hugged him tightly. He couldn't see anything else to do. The Russian didn't struggle, and eventually calmed down, though still panting. Napoleon Solo didn't release the hug.

A suppressed voice hissed.

-He exists.

-Ease up, Illya, my friend..

-No, you don'y understand, Napoleon. I dreamt about this man, and he seemed to me so real. He touched me. And... he wasn't real. I thought... I thought I was going crazy. So did you, my friend. But...

Illya Kuryakin pushed his partner away, and picked up the drawing.

-But this is my man, Napoleon. He exists. He is real. Oh, don't look at me like that. Evan saw him, in the jail. It might have happened that... I met him there. I don't remember him, but ... he came back in my dreams. Napoleon, believe me.

He paused to breathe.

-I don't remember his face. But... his voice... No. His tone. His delivery. His diction. I feel... kind of familiar with them, Napoleon.

The older agent ran his fingers through his dark hair. He looked unusually undecided. Evan Stellon had precisely depicted the man he had seen. In the jail. At the Survival School. Stellon's story was hazy. It could be a trick. The mole Stellon could have planned to compromise Cutter. At least, to sow suspicion. Now... Illya recognized the man. He sure did, and Napoleon Solo trusted his friend. So Evan Stellon was an honest man, Illya wasn't going mad, and Jules Cutter... The dark haired agent frowned.

-Napoleon ?

His partner looked at him warily.

-We have to tell Mr Waverly, Illya.

* * *

Jules Cutter sighed. On a brief moment, he wondered whether he was right or wrong. It was pure gamble. But this time, he couldn't afford to loose. Stellon... Stellon was the problem. Stellon's story. What he wanted to say to Waverly, when he had been abducted. Cutter didn't know what it was about. But he knew that he wouldn't like it; He needed time. Little time. And free hands.

* * *

Evan Stellon and April Dancer studied files. Waverly ordered them to replace the two agents, under the pretext that it was... logical : after all, Stellon was the one who saw, the one who knew the man's face.

* * *

In the office, the Old Man was silent. The atmosphere was tense. Waverly stared at the two agents.

-And when, Mr Kuryakin, did you intend to tell me about those strange... dreams ?

A harsh voice and a sharp question. The man was angry. Rightly angry, Napoleon Solo thought. However, he wouldn't let his friend fend for himself. He knew, and he could have reported...

-Sir..

Waverly looked daggers at him.

-Mr Solo, please ! If you really wish to stay in this room...

The threat was clear. Napoleon Solo gave up.

Waverly turned towards his Russian agent.

-So, Mr Kuryakin ?

The young man faintly smiled at his partner. Then, he took a deep breath.

-First, sir... I thought that it was just a nightmare.

Those silent places. Desert. Dusty. Illya Kuryakin spoke with a dull voice. As unconcerned. Lifeless. The street. Del Floria's shop. The headquarter. And later, the island. The jail. Desert. Silent. Except for the footsteps. And the voice.

In spite of his obvious intention of being as detached as possible, the Russian's delivery betrayed his feelings. Waverly listened. Impassive. He wouldn't help.

-... and he was dead, sir. Napoleon was dead. I was late. The voice told me that... I hadn't made it and... It was my fault... and...

Waverly cut in harshly.

-That's what you rightly called a nightmare, Mr Kuryakin. As you can see, Mr Solo is here, and apparently alive. What about the man Mr Stellon depicted ?

Illya Kuryakin sighed.

-Another dream. Another... nightmare, sir.

Waverly impatiently shook his fingers.

The man, middle aged. So kind, so likeable, the first time. And his extraordinary offer. So ruthless, a few hours ago. Threatening. But still the same offer. A normal life.

Alexander Waverly listened. Wordlessly. Impassive. The young Russian spoke and never averted his eyes. He was obviously inflinching in his desire to tell the facts. Precisely. Whatever the risk. Whatever the price. Waverly noticed Napoleon Solo's trouble. He went back to his desk, got his pipe, and stared at it. Again, a heavy silence. Then, the Old Man softly spoke.

-Our doctors told me that you were fine, Mr Kuryakin. That you could be back on full duty. In the field. I hesitated, Mr Kuryakin. And eventually, I decided to trust them.

Alexander Waverly turned towards his agent.

-And to trust you...

The same lifeless, white voice. And the same blue eyes.

-I have already told Napoleon that I would resign, sir. You rightly expect me to leave, and...

Alexander Waverly was calmly filling his pipe, and he cut in.

-Is that what you want, Mr Kuryakin ? So, eventually, our enemy knows you well.

He lit the pipe and puffed it.

-So, Mr Kuryakin, I asked you : is that what you want ? A normal life ?

Illya Kuryakin was puzzled. Waverly's reaction was disconcerting. No more anger.

-I told you that once, sir. What I want, what I like... doesn't matter, does it ? You can't rely on me. You can't trust me. When I left the jail... I wanted to disappear, then... I wanted to resign. I should have...

Waverly harrumphed.

-You hide behind vain assertions, Mr Kuryakin. What do you want, really ? This normal life this man offered you ? We can offer you the same, young man. You know that. Or...

Alexander Waverly paused to stare at his dumbfounded agent. Napoleon Solo didn't even dare to breathe.

-Or... you can go on doing your job, Mr Kuryakin. It means that... you could actually try to trust your friends. And your superior. So ?

Illya Kuryakin was at a loss for... all.

-You are an excellent agent, Mr Kuryakin. I won't enumerate your skills. But you have some shortcomings, too. And the worst of them, the most dangerous, Mr Kuryakin... is your inability to ask for help. It recently almost... destroyed you. So ?

The Russian hesitated and shook his head, causing Waverly and Napoleon Solo to frown.

-I can't believe that Jules Cutter is a traitor, sir.

Alexander Waverly bitterly smiled.

-You met this man, Mr Kuryakin. He is familiar to you. And... amazingly... rather helpful. You didn' t meet him as an enemy.

-I have a good memory, sir. An eidetic memory. But I really don't remember his face. I am afraid that April and Evan won't find anything about him in our files. Perhaps... perhaps, he is not a Thrush agent...

Napoleon Solo rolled his eyes.

-Of course, he is a Thrush agent, Illya. I know that you often work on the computer files. However... you can't remember all the faces...

* * *

Jules Cutter settled himself in the car, and watched at the desert street. Desert... for the moment. He was sure that the man would go out, and he intented to follow him.

* * *

A discouraged Evan Stellon moaned.

-Nothing, miss Dancer. I don't find him.

-Neither do I, Evan. Let's report to Mr Waverly.

* * *

Jules Cutter sneered : April Dancer, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were leaving the headquarter. Quite careless. He pulled out his gun and aimed at them. He could shoot them, straight right. He sighed and put the gun on the seat.

* * *

Bayle took a deep breath. He felt... satisfied. Satisfied was the word. He knew now what he would do. Simmons had been arrogant. He had confronted the Uncle agents, and left them the territorial advantage. A fateful mistake. One he wouldn't make. The funniest was that they gave him the idea. The greatest weakness of all the Uncle agents : they cared about innocents. So, when the innocent was a friend... and a close friend...

* * *

-Oh, no, boys. I am exhausted. You'll drop me at home. I am a big girl, now, and I can live on my own. And you should sleep, too. You look terrible. Both of you.

Déjà vu.

« Good night! » Not very wise. The night... Good dawn, rather. Waverly ordered them to rest, a few hours. They were scheduled at 1O a.m... unless something happened. As they went out, he had took hold of Napoleon Solo's arm, and just peeked at the young Russian. The message was clear. Napoleon Solo had to take care of his partner. The older agent chuckled. Of course, he would. He always did.

-The Old Man is wrong, Napoleon. I... I trust my friends.

-But not your superior...

-Of course, I trust him !

-But... you hate to depend upon other people...

-I... I rely on you, Napoleon. As you rely on me.

-Yes, you do. But... you don't like it.

-Neither do you, my friend. You know, I think that Mikey is a bad influence... He read me so easily... and now, Waverly does.

-And I do.

-You always did, Napoleon. I suppose you won't leave me alone ? Tststs, Napoleon ! I saw Waverly's look, you know ?

-Right.

-So... let's go at your home. It's closer, and I guess you'll have something to eat...


	27. Chapter 27

Illya Kuryakin was dozing. He wouldn't sleep. Not really. He feared to sleep. Because he feared to dream.

« You are not courageous, if you are not afraid. You are just unaware of the danger. »

The old Vassili had phrased it. Sententiously. All the young men, around him had agreed. Vassili had looked around, obviously listening them, staring at them. His eyes had fallen on the young blond boy. A piercing look. « What do you think ? » Illya Kuryakin remembered his answer. You didn't lie to Vassili. « When you fight for your life, fear is a waste of time you can't afford. » Vassili's comment. Sharp. « You are a character, Kuryakin. ». The others had sneered.

But he was right. His opinion had been proven to be true.

Being aware of the danger. Evaluating it. Acting.

An efficient strategy.

Two cracks.

First... when you feared for someone else. Someone you cared about. Your partner. Your friend.

Secondly... when you couldn't evaluate the danger. Because, perhaps, there was no danger. Because, perhaps, there were no enemy. And you were betrayed. Abducted. Almost killed.

Illya Kuryakin sighed. In every society, people dedicated themselves... (or sometimes... were dedicated) to various arts of fight. You made the most of your skills. You had to be ready. Ready to kill. To be killed. You tried to compensate your shortcomings. Vassili... Trust no one. Trust yourself. Cutter...

-Illya ?

Napoleon Solo stood in the doorway.

-I can hear you thinking from my bed, tovarish.

-I've been feeling a little strange, lately, Napoleon.

* * *

Jules Cutter blinked. This moment... No longer the night. Not yet the day. The moment you fell asleep while watching. The moment the enemy could take advantage of it. The moment you were shot. The moment you gave up. The moment you died. He rubbed his neck energetically. Suddenly fully awaken. His prey had just appeared. As careless as the three others. This one, at least tried to leave the Headquarter, as discreetly as he could. Jules Cutter prepared to tail the guy. He was good at it.

* * *

Remembering... Remembering was the worst. He had left the US for three years. He had changed his look. His face. He had buried his memories. His promise. So far, so long. Last year, he had come back. He had to work with ... Simmons. A brilliant agent, who infiltrated the Uncle. More precisely the Commission... A brilliant agent, and a very malicious plan. He might have succeeded... The man had not any guilt feeling about the Commissioner's failure. Whatever he could have ordered... had only one purpose. An opportunity to honour his promise. Vainly.

Then, the Uncle agents had defeated Simmons. He had thought eventually that he had even things up. And... no. Bayle... Bayle had taken over from Simmons. Simmons was ambitious. An individualist. Bayle wasn't ambitious. He was arrogant, and, above all... crazy. Mad. Extremely dangerous. He wouldn't give up. He wouldn't disappear. The man knew for sure that Bayle was already on the warpath. Again. Luckily, he could still rely on his friend.

* * *

Jules Cutter knew the district like the back of his hand. The taxidriver was soundly asleep in Cutter's car. Jules Cutter drove the yellow cab... A prowling taxi... He could go unnoticed. He turned. Turned again. His prey walked at a brisk pace. He passed him... and cursed. The man was hailing him... Cutter grabbed the driver's cap, on the seat. He ought to seize the opportunity.

* * *

Napoleon Solo frowned.

-Are you okay ? Do you need something ?

Certainties, Illya Kuryakin thought. What could he answer ? He felt grateful, of course, for his friend's concern, but...

-You fear to sleep...

The Russian shivered.

-Because you fear to dream. I know you, Illya.

Napoleon Solo came up to the bed, and sat down. His friend's features betrayed his feelings. Surprise. Guilt. Shame.

-You saved my life, in Mikey's home. And one of the Trush men shot you. Do you remember ?

Silence.

-You mocked at me, about my inability to survive without you to watch my back. Then.. you passed out.

Silence.

-Mikey called a doctor. He took care of you. I kept vigil over you, for hours. You were feverish, you tossed and turned in that bed. Then, you eventually fell asleep. I thought... I left you...one minute. When I came back, you were leaning back against the wall, clutching at the bookshelves. Eyes closed. Pale, Illya, so pale. So ...

-Frightened.

Illya Kuryakin has hissed the word, with a venomous tone.

-Brave. You fought doubts, drugs, pain...

-Fear.

Napoleon Solo chose to ignore.

-I called you, but you didn't react. I helped you to the bed.

Silence.

-I gave you water. I ... pampered you... you didn't complain about it but you kept your eyes closed. You didn't sleep. You were not unconscious. You... clenched your eyelids, as firmly as you could. I saw that. You didn't want to open your eyes. And you eventually told me...

-Thank you... And you answered that I was welcome.

-And you opened your eyes.

And I saw you, Illa Kuryakin thought. Instead of what, he asked flatly.

-Why are you reminding me of that ?

-Then you asked me to stay with you. So, now... I'll stay there. And you'll sleep. And you won't dream. Because you'll know that I am here. Alive. Shhhh ! You have no choice. We need some rest. Both of us.

And the older agent lay beside his partner, waiting for a struggle, some protests. He just a heard a sad whispering.

-You mother the poor little boy who is afraid of the dark...

-I help, I support my closest friend, the way he did for me so many times... Indulge me, Illya. Okay ?

* * *

The boy looked troubled. He didn't pay any attention to the driver, looking back, as if he feared to be followed. Cutter hesitated : he could easily overcome the young man, bring him back to the headquarter and definitely clear the air. It was reasonable, but ineffective. He could stake his all. He could track down the guy's chief. Not reasonable, but effective. Effective and... satisfying. The boy was still looking back. They were reaching their destination. Cutter slowed down and parked the car, waiting for the fare. The boy leaned forward, handing a bill. And for the first time, Cutter's eyes met Stellon's in the rear-view. The boy didn't look troubled anymore. Just ... amused. The mischievous smile of a man who just played a rotten trick on you. And Cutter blacked out.

When he became conscious, he was almost comfortably settled in an armchair. Comfortably, except for the bounds restraining him. Stellon wasn't there. He fidgeted, testing the bounds.

-You won't make it, Mr Cutter. You'd have better to ease yourself.

A middle aged man, whose tone pointed an obvious authority, came up to Jules Cutter.

-Who are you ?

The man sneered.

-The typical Uncle agent's arrogance. Do you think you are in a position to ask anything, Mr Cutter ? Anyway, I'll be happy to indulge you. You can call me... John Doe. Don't look daggers at me, it doesn't upset me, you know.

Jules Cutter was angry. He was mad, mad at himself. He had been careless.

-Don't worry, Mr Cutter. You tried something, and it didn't work. That's life.

-Enough ! What do you want ? Where is this... ?

-Mr Stellon ... Mr Stellon is carrying out my orders. And that, Mr Cutter, is none of your business. All I want is to talk with you !

Jules Cutter harrumphed with despise. The said Doe shook his head. He looked irritated. Good news... The man was worried. He peeped at his watch. He wasn't so confident he would pull it off. Cutter would try to take advantage of that. If time was so important...

-Stop sneering, Mr Cutter. We have to talk.

-How interesting ! I don't have anything to tell you, Mister... Doe.

The man took a chair and sat down.

-Still arrogant, Mr Cutter. You assume that I want you to tell me something ? You are wrong. By your fault, Evan had to improvise. When he came out the headquarter, he knew you would be there. Your friends are... divided on the question : are you a traitor ? Are you a victim ? As a traitor, you must hide. As a victim, you are a prisoner. Evan knew that you were neither a mole... nor a victim. So, consequently... you would probably try to tail him. We can't afford the time to argue. As you are here, you are going to help us.

Jules Cutter gulped, choked. He burst in a mix of laughter and anger.

-Are... are you... kidding ?

-No, Mr Cutter. I am the one who have something to tell you. And you are going to listen. Attentively.

* * *

The sunrise stung the sky and the top of the buildings with various shades. Bayle entered the hotel. A few minutes later, he knocked at a door. He heard footsteps. Someone unbolted, and opened. Carelessly. The fisherman, dressed up, obviously ready to leave, looked at him inquiringly. Bayle smiled and greeted him. Mikey returned the greeting, and passed out.


	28. Chapter 28

Jules Cutter remained silent. He was abashed. The other man inclined his head, then raised it. He looked at him.

-Do you really think I can believe such a story, Mr « Doe » ?

He rudely insisted on the « Doe »

-You are a Thrush executive. Be honest... well... If you were given the opportunity to get rid of your worst enemies, so, you wouldn't take it ?

-Strictly speaking, Mr Cutter, you are right. That's logical. However, I told you my true story.

Cutter sneered. Provocative.

-A debt of... honour ? You ? A Thrush man ? That's far beyond my ability to comprehend. And, anyway... it's hard to swallow, man. If your Bayle get a chance to succeed...

The man cut in, ruthlessly.

-He isn't **my Bayle** . He isn't even Thrush's Bayle, you know ? Simmons worked for us. Bayle... cracked up. He could have supported Simmons. And they could perhaps have defeated the Uncle. He chose to go away. He is clearly under delusions of grandeur. Bayle works... for Bayle's sake. Thrush... we don't support him. Now, Mr Cutter, you can choose. You are the one who can help us. Of course, if you prefer... you can stay here.

The tension had increased. Jules Cutter knew for sure that this man tried to delude him. This story was quite unbelievable. Ridiculous. But...

But part of it was true. It happened. Cutter remembered it. He remembered his own anger against Alexander Waverly. Waverly and his... leniency towards his ... protégé. « Doe » could be the man. If he was...

He shook his head, and collected his thoughts.

-And Stellon ? Who is he ? Your mole ? A Thrush mole ?

« Doe » leaned forward, staring at Cutter.

-Stellon... Stellon isn't his name. His first name, however, is Evan.

He obviously hesitated, looking eventually amused.

-You are prying, Mr Cutter. You are prying. But I'll tell you, as a mark of... willingness. Evan... Evan is my nephew.

Cutter couldn't help staring wide-eyed. He hissed ironically.

-Something like a family affair ?

-Yes. So, Mr Cutter, your choice ?

* * *

His partner curled up like a cat with his back to him, along the opposite edge of the bed. As far as possible. Napoleon Solo had no intention of giving up. Of abandoning his friend. But he was ill at ease. Where was their mutual confidence ? Their mutual trust ? No. Where was Illya's confidence ?

Illya Kuryakin put all his strength into looking motionless. He was just breathing. Calmly. Regularly. But he knew that he didn't fool his partner. Napoleon was staring at his back. He could feel his gaze. Napoleon was listening, and he held his own breath.

A hand tentatively brushed his back and began to stroke it. Imperceptibly. It could have been an illusion. And it wasn't. The fingers touched him. It wasn't a massage. Just a contact. Soothing.

He remembered perfectly well... Mousehole, how his friend had hugged him, caring about his wounded arm, and how he had almost rocked him, until he had fallen soundly asleep. And... it had been so pleasant...

The deft hand stroked his back, his shoulders, his neck. It was lulling him. His breath became calmer, and more even. The older agent felt the tension alleviating and smiled... Proudly.

_The dazzling light burnt him._

_Suddenly, it softened. He could feel it through his eyelids. But whatever was the physical relief, it was... frightening_.

-_Is he... conscious ?_

_He knew this voice._

_-Yes, I think so, but..._

_-I want you to take care of him._

_-I know, but it's difficult. I can't_

_-His friends move heaven and earth in order to free him. They'll succeed. I want you to take care of this man until he'll be freed._

_-But..._

_-That's an order, Evan._

-Evan !

Napoleon Solo was dozing,, his hand still on his friend's shoulder. He felt him jerk and heard him yell. He was immediately fully awake. The room bathed in the morning light. Illya Kuryakin sat straight in the bed, looking around, and wrapped his arms around his knees. Solo's hand slid down the shoulder, and he squeezed his wrist.

-Illya ?

The young Russian stared at his friend.

-He came, Napoleon. He went to the jail.

* * *

-So, Mr Cutter ? Evan is back. You have a few minutes to make up your mind.

The man went out. Jules Cutter was appalled. That was a very poor story. A very poor lie. A very pitiful hoax.

Or... it was true.

* * *

Napoleon Solo bit his lips. A new dream. At least, Illya Kuryakin looked trouble. Not terrified.

-Are you sure, Illya ?

Illya Kuryakin looked down, his face hidden by the blond locks. Then, he raised his head. The blue eyes were ... serene. Amazingly serene. The Russian freed his wrist and grabbed his partner's hand.

-Napoleon, listen to me. That's important. It wasn't really a dream, you know. It was ... memory.

Certainty.

-I believe you, tovarish. So, that's why his voice was familiar to you...

Illya Kuryakin didn't reply for a moment.

-Illya ?

-I don't know, Napoleon. That's... still confused. I heard him in my cell. I should have opened my eyes, and looked at him, but... When I heard him... his voice was already familiar to me. That means... I knew him before, Napoleon. I should have looked at him.

-You could have, Illya, but, remember.. anyway, you don't recognize his face. Perhaps you just know his voice. And, he was talking with... Evan ?

Illya Kuryakin sighed.

-Yes.

-This man had asked him to take care of you, Illya. And... he did. In a way.

-But... but, in the other hand, he is the one who told the Thrush killers where we were,

-Perhaps... perhaps, Illya, he had no choice.

The Russian smiled grimly.

-You should call the headquarter, Napoleon. Evan... He is still there.

* * *

This drug was really fascinating. The fisherman could « walk », leaning on Bayle's shoulder. An old man, sick, a little drunk. However, they didn't met anyone, except for a young night watchman... but Bayle had handled the problem. He settled his prisoner in the car. The fisherman rolled his eyes, powerless. Bayle moved off.

-Mikey, er ? I know that you are Mr Kuryakin's friend... He'll be sorry for you. He won't abandon you, don't worry. I am sure he'll do his best to find you...

The fisherman's green eyes tried to look daggers at Bayle. Mikey was mad at himself. He had been stupid.

* * *

Considering what had happened the previous night, Illya Kuryakin was amazingly calm. His eyes met his partner's.

-I assume that Evan Stellon had left the Headquarter ?

Napoleon Solo nodded.

-At least... it means that Jules Cutter is... innocent.

* * *

Bayle stood on the terrace. Here, he felt safe. He had left some traces. They would first find out that their precious fisherman had been abducted. Then, they would track them down. And of course... found them. At last... he would killed them. Kuryakin, Solo... Perhaps Cutter. Concerning Stellon, this little ... He sipped his whiskey and threw the glass on the floor. He din't know what Stellon was up to. Had he turned his coat ?

* * *

Jules Cutter had made his mind. He couldn't stay there. They would free him, and he would assess the situation. The man went back and came up to him. He looked grim.

-Something wrong, Mr « Doe »?

-I don't know. Bayle... is gone. So, what's your choice, Mr Cutter ? I won't waste time to give you notice of the latest events, if you choose to stay here.

Jules Cutter frowned, but the man was right. He nodded his agreement.

* * *

Napoleon Solo took hold of his communicator. He had to report to Alexander Waverly. At this precise moment, the phone rang. The Russian picked it up, and the older agent went away, towards the kitchen.

Alexander Waverly wasn't even surprised. Despite all opposition, recently, Napoleon Solo couldn't believe that Illya Kuryakin was a traitor... Just now, Waverly couldn't believe that Jules Cutter was a Thrush mole.

When Napoleon Solo entered the living room, his friend stood in the light of the morning sun, with his back to him.

-We are still scheduled at 10 a.m., Illya. The Old Man want us to be careful.

The Russian turned towards him, and bleakly answered.

-What we'll be mainly concerned with... won't be our own safety, Napoleon.

The voice was tense.

-Illya ? What...

-In all likelihood... Mikey has been abducted, earlier, this morning. I am afraid we'll be late, Napoleon. Mr Waverly will have to wait.

The young night watchman sighed with relief. He felt ill at ease, but this man had offered him money. Much money. And he had followed the instructions. He had called the first number. No answer. As he had been told, he had called the second number. Now, someone would come. He would take him to the old man's bedroom, and let him investigate.

-The night watchman... he saw Mikey leaving the hotel. He looked a little dizzy... drunk. He was supported by another man. The guy came up to ask, but apparently Mikey shook his head to tell him not to move. Mikey managed to drop a sheet of paper, with our numbers, Napoleon. The man called us. We have to go there. Now. Perhaps... there are some traces.

-Stellon ?

-No, I think... that was Bayle.

* * *

Jules Cutter foamed. He cursed, abused, insulted... Vainly. « Doe » and Stellon went out, leaving him with what he needed to free himself... at the expense of some efforts.

-I'll keep your communicator, Mr Cutter. In a few minutes, you'll be free, and you'll go to your headquarter. You'll tell Waverly about what happened. Illya Kuryakin and consequently Napoleon Solo are Bayle's preys... You'll look for them. I'll go back to my office. We'll look for Bayle. Be careful, this man is... dangerous. He went wild, but he is very clever. We'll keep each other informed, won't we ?

* * *

Alexander Waverly thoughtfully rubbed his chin. Jules Cutter stood in front of him, unshaven, tired, upset and... angry.

-It's a very amazing story, my friend... and I am not sure...

Jules Cutter cut in.

-What should be established at the very outset, Alex, is that we are dealing with... insanity. Bayle ... is a mad man. And the other... I can't swallow that. A Thrush executive ? An important one ? He would compromise himself, and his own organisation ? That's ... a trick.

Alexander Waverly grabbed his pipe.

-Oh, no, stop it with that !

The Old Man raised an eyebrow and went on, filling the pipe, lighting it, and puffing. Cutter rolled his eyes with exasperation. Waverly looked as if he took a mischievous delight in doing this. At last, he stared at his friend.

-Jules, my friend, concerning Bayle, I agree with you. Concerning the other man... another way of looking at the question is to consider ... As you know, Jules, I am married... and I have children.

Jules Cutter frowned, opened his mouth, but Waverly went on.

- I have children. Paradoxical though it may seem... I think I can understand.


	29. Chapter 29

-What are you doing, Napoleon ?

The older agent paused. He raised his hand and showed the communicator.

-I have to report to Waverly, and...

-No, we can't waste time, Napoleon. We have to go to Mikey's hotel, now. Then, you'll call Mr Waverly.

Napoleon Solo knew better than to argue.

Mikey's bedroom was tidy. His case, on the table, was closed. No traces of a fight.

The older agent unlocked the case, and cursed. An envelope had been left there. Carefully. On the envelope, their names. In the envelope, a sheet of paper, an address, and very precise instructions...

But they wouldn't obey.

* * *

-Mr Solo ? Mr Solo ! I forbid...

Alexander Waverly banged on his desk, obviously furious.

-It's a trick, Jules, and they are charging in, blindly ! Bayle's plan...

-Is very clever, as usual.

Jules Cutter sounded almost admiring. Bayle had schemed Mikey's disappearance. He knew that Illya Kuryakin wouldn't abandon his friend. He knew that Napoleon Solo wouldn't leave his partner alone... Alexander Waverly was still foaming.

-I couldn't even tell them about the man, and Stellon !

-Speaking of that...

Jules Cutter took hold of Waverly's communicator. He looked at it, then at Waverly, inquiringly.

-I don't know, Jules. I don't know whether to be horrified... or hopeful. If I let you call him... It's a sort of collaboration with the enemy. The commissioner Vernon will be... delighted.

-And he will fire us. All of us.

-If you don't call...

-We could deprive the two young men of an invaluable help...

* * *

Illya Kuryakin was dozing in the car. Apparently. He knew that it wasn't a nightmare.

Bayle wasn't an ordinary opponent. He had organized... everything. The Russian agent expected the worst.

Bayle had abducted Mikey. He was taking advantage of that. He used Mikey as a bait... A quite usual strategy.

But it was a trick. An obvious trick. A really rotten trick.

The man didn't even bother to hide.

Whatever he asked them to do..., he obviously didn't mind about.

"_Don't tell anyone..."_

Of course, they had called the headquarter.

Of course, Waverly would manage to help them, and send them some reinforcements...

Bayle acted strangely... Stupidly ? Madly ?

Illya Kuryakin didn't undervalue the man. He wasn't stupid. Mad ? In a way...

But he wanted something. He wanted to defeat... the Uncle. To hold them up to ridicule. He liked stir.

They had already experienced his skills.

Illya Kuryakin shivered. The clearest possible evidence.

-Stop ! Stop now.

Napoleon Solo jammed on the brakes.

-Mr Waverly ?

-Oh, Mr Kuryakin ! Would you tell me, young man...

The Russian cut in ; he spoke with an unusually strained voice.

-Sir, please, listen to me. Don't send any reinforcements to the address Napoleon gave you. It's a trap, sir. Remember what happened in the jail. A trap. A booby-trap. Bayle likes stir. He likes bombs. If we bolt in...

-So, Mr Kuryakin, what are you going to do ? And, where is Mr Solo ?

-Napoleon is just here. We look for a good observation post. We'll check and report to you, as soon as possible.

Alexander Waverly sighed with relief.

-Good, Mr Kuryakin. Reinforcements are on their way. Tell me where you are. If anything happens, let me know.

* * *

-You didn't tell them, Alex...

Waverly had already considered it. Complicated. Long. He shrugged his shoulders.

* * *

Bayle felt ... great. The boat rocked him gently but it wasn't unpleasant. He picked up the binoculars and watched at the house. Such a beautiful terrace. Still. Peaceful. A perfect scenery... He glanced over his shoulder. The fisherman, bound hand and foot, lay, absolutely powerless. He was fully awake, nevertheless, and obviously fuming.

-A beautiful house, isn't it ? It's a pity, really, but, well, we'll call that a collateral damage. Inevitable.

The fisherman cursed, mad at himself. A bait. A poor, stupid bait. Whatever happens, he would deserve his fate. But people could die. Because... of his stupidity. Of his stubbornness. Illya. He cursed again.

-Tststs, man ! You are beginning to annoy me. You complain, you moan, you sulk... I should throw you overboard...

-Oh, yes, you should !

Bayle took hold of his binoculars and sneered.

-But, old man, I care about the innocents... For the moment.

He looked at the house. Nothing. He turned to his prisoner, staring thoughtfully at him. Then, he grabbed him, and ruthlessly dragged him towards the deck. Then, he leaned him against the cabin.

-The show is about to begin...

* * *

The two Uncle agents walked along a narrow path. They were not so far from NY city, but that looked like Mousehole. They found themselves at the end of the path, facing a drystone wall. Illya Kuryakin heaved himself up onto the wall, looking around. Napoleon Solo sighed, and joined his partner. The Russian pointed his finger.

-This house, with the terrace.

-It looks desert...

Illya Kuryakin took a deep breath. He had to convince his partner. One way or another...

-Are you kidding ? We'll go together, and...

-No, Napoleon. Bayle isn't there. It's a trap, remember. But he waits. He looks... He knows that we are on our way. I won't disappoint him. I'll « creep » into the house, and you'll watch. He is somewhere.

-That's clever, Illya, really clever. You throw yourself into the lion's jaws. And I... watch. And what if he just blows up the house, my friend ?

-Remember... he went to tease you, in the jail. He likes that. He wants to savour his triumph. He'll see me, and he'll react. You'll have your chance to spot him.

Napoleon Solo shook his head. No way.

Illya Kuryakin sighed again.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin observed closely the fence. He cut it, and pulled it wide enough for him to climb through. Then he slipped inside the bushes, and made his way towards the terrace, just above him. Soon, the enemy would spot him. Bayle had to be convinced that he was winning. So, the Russian was conspicuously careful. He conspicuously looked around, up, down. He hugged the wall, and cautiously hauled himself onto the terrace. As a well trained Uncle agent, he got out his gun, crept forward, moving into the corner, and leaning his back against the wall. He didn't really overact. It was just amazing, because he had to think about it. Usually, that was a sort of unconscious routine... This time, he wanted to be seen. He conspicuously crouched to the ground, obviously listening for some noise from the inside.

* * *

Napoleon Solo rose, rubbing his chin. He would skin his partner alive for that ! However, he had no choice. He craned forward and looked around. Nothing. Nobody. He watched again. Of course, he couldn't see his friend. The sea, some cabins? Boats. A flash of light. The house. The terrace. The sea. The cabins. And this flash of light, ... twinkled. It came from a boat... Binoculars.

Sneaky Russian. He got his communicator and called his partner.

-Illya ? We'll have to talk, later... However, you were right. Someone is watching you from a boat, down below. Come back, we'll...

-No, Napoleon. You care about the boat... I look for Mikey.

* * *

Bayle sneered.

-Your Russian friend is ensnared, old man. I won't keep him waiting. I guess his partner is somewhere... looking for me.

Mikey was dumbfounded : Bayle hung the binoculars by the sun, and shook them.

-Butterflies like light, you knew that ? Light is a perfect trap for butterflies.

This Bayle was completely crazy. Why was he talking about butterflies ?

-There is a butterfly called butterfly Empereur... Isn't it a very convenient trap for a ... Napoleon ?

-You are...

-Shhhh, Mikey ! So, good bye. Well... Farewell ! I am sure that Mr Solo will appreciate my little gift.

The fisherman couldn't see what he was doing. He just heard him rummaging. Then, Bayle went out, shook his fingers at him, and slipped in the water.

* * *

Napoleon Solo crawled through the bushes and the rocks towards the small harbour. Regularly, he craned forward. Bayle was obviously still watching the house.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin cautiously opened the huge French windows, and stepped into the house. The place was dark. He indulged himself and paused to breathe.

The room was desert. Silent. Dusty. He crossed it, counting four doors. One larger than the three others. He tried it first, and pushed it carefully. He took a step forward. Another room. Desert, Silent, and dusty.

He checked the room. And he checked the two others. Desert, silent and dusty. The third was locked. It could be trapped. But Illya Kuryakin knew that he couldn't waste time. It was .. a bet. Maybe a lethal one... but Bayle liked more spectacular exhibitions. The Russian gave the door a kick, and it slammed against the wall. He breathed a sigh of relief, and entered the room. Obviously the entrance hall. Silent, desert, dusty.

Not silent.

Illya Kuryakin froze.

He suddenly heard something.

Footsteps.

A draft.

The dust flied.

Footsteps again. Closer


	30. Chapter 30

Napoleon Solo flattened himself against the wooden cabin. His very last shelter. The boat alongside the quay. The quay... no place to hide. Except for – and he pulled a wry face...- except for ... water. As Bayle was obviously watching the house, Napoleon Solo could swim to the boat, quite safely.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin was listening. The footsteps got closer.

It could be ... some reinforcements. Waverly, eventually...

It could be ... an innocent. The owner... A neighbour...

It could be... a dream.

It wasn't a dream.

It wasn't a nightmare.

It was reality : he could hear seagulls, breeze.

The footsteps got closer.

-What a lovely surprise, Mr Kuryakin...

A sugary tone. Honeyed words. Illya Kuryakin turned to the voice and aimed his gun.

A man entered the room. The Russian had probably met him in the jail, but he didn't remember his face. He had seen photos. Bayle. Aiming a gun at him, of course.

The man snickered.

-You look better, Mr Kuryakin. Freedom suits you.

Without taking his eyes from him, Bayle walked towards the French windows. He looked calm. Relaxed. Steady on his legs. Almost casual. He was smiling. A queer fellow. Illya Kuryakin kept silent. Bayle's eyes told another story : they were piercing, The eyes of a man who just waits and sees. The Russian's silence obviously surprised him. Better : it got on his nerves

-Are you tongue-tied, Mr Kuryakin ? Shyness ? Astonishment ? or... fright ?

Illya Kuryakin forced an apologetic smile, belied by the hardness in his eyes. But still kept silent.

Bayle clenched his jaws, and sneered. The light-haired boy wanted to play... But he had already lost. He just didn't know it, yet. Bayle's heart was swelling with pride. He sighed and slowly backed out of the living room. Illya Kuryakin had no choice bu to follow him.

With a gesture, Bayle showed the sea, still aiming at the Russian with his right hand.

-A really beautiful sight, Mr Kuryakin !

He frowned. This Russian was quite rude. Or... tragically absent-minded. The smile faded. The tone hardened.

-You made life... complicated, for me, recently, Mr Kuryakin. I staged such a spectacular death for you, and you... you spoiled my pleasure. Really, you deserve punishment.

The voice was cutting, but Illya Kuryakin still didn't show any reaction.

Bayle took some steps back, carefully, keeping his eyes on the Russian.

-You didn't ask me about your old friend, MR Kuryakin... That's not very nice, as he worried a lot about you. And I guess he still worries...for the moment. Because he knows.

He didn't move the gun. He didn't even look at it. Nevertheless, the threat was clear. Bayle savored of self-satisfaction.

-But... as he said, you deserve punishment. Of course, I'll kill you. Whatever you plan, I'll kill you. But before...

Bayle paused. He raised an eyebrow with an affected astonishment, and looked around.

-Oh... and your partner, Mr Kuryakin ? Where is he ? Where is Mr Solo ?

It was amazing. Bayle didn't ask. It was a rhetorical question. A way to take up a new topic. Illya Kuryakin couldn't help blinking. The man was obviously delighted. The cat who ate the canary.

-Do you like fireworks, Mr Kuryakin ?

* * *

Napoleon Solo silently cursed as he was climbing up the hull. He gripped the planks, and craned forward. The way was clear. He hauled himself onto the desk, getting his breath back. Breeze, seagulls. The boat was gently rocking, and Napoleon Solo grinned. Luckily, **he** wasn't seasick...

He took some careful steps towards the bows. He heard nothing. Suddenly a seagull alighted on the planks. The bird was obviously calm. Fearless of the man with the binoculars. Very fearless. Too fearless. The dark haired agent got his gun, and crept along. Eventually, he rushed forward, aiming at his prey.

* * *

-Predictably enough, Alexander... You should keep your agents on a shorter leash... You let them holding the reins, and...

Alexander Waverly harrumphed.

-Clear off with your metaphorical statements !

-All the same... they went their own way. The reinforcements found their car... but where are they ? And we couldn't even call them... just in case.

Waverly sighed, but flatly replied.

-Who teaches recruits about using their own initiative ?

* * *

Napoleon Solo rolled, and lithely got on his feet. The binoculars swung, ironically. No Bayle. A grunt gave him a start. He turned round, and gulped. On the floor, leaned back against the cabin, Mikey. A bounded Mikey, hand and foot. A gagged Mikey. But his eyes spoke. No anger, no impatience. Just... and that was so unusual, raw panic.

* * *

The young Russian took two steps forward. Bayle pointed at the sea.

-Come closer, Mr Kuryakin, so as to enjoy the show...

He didn't point at the sea. He pointed at the boat. In a blink of an eye, Illya Kuryakin got out his communicator with his left hand. Almost simultaneously, he heard a shot and a blast. A twinge of pain. A sharp pain through his shoulder. He dropped the gun. And the communicator.

-Oh, no, you won't pass out, Mr Kuryakin.

Someone was dragging him to the edge of the terrace, ruthlessly, and kept his head straight. He felt dizzy. His vision was blurred. But he saw.

Some black wisps of smoke. Pitifully ridiculous.

* * *

-What ? An explosion ? Go there immediately, and let me know.

Alexander Waverly explained with a dull voice. The reinforcements had just heard a blast. As Jules Cutter gulped, the Old Man shhok his head. It wasn't the house. It was... a boat.

* * *

Bayle dropped the Russian down, walked towards the communicator and crushed it.

-I think you know, Mr Kuryakin ? Your friends were on the boat, of course. Your fisherman, and your partner. They died... Oh, don't worry, you are not to blame. Well... just partly.

Bayle strutted about. His enemy lay, barely conscious, bleeding, and... defeated. Now, the final show.

Illya Kuryakin went through hell. He hurt. Pain. Physical pain. Suffering. Despair.

The loss. An aching void.

And ... hatred. Overwhelming hatred.

Bayle noticed the blue eyes, now so pale, almost limpid. The eyes of a dying man. But it wasn't time ! No fun !

The hand covered with blood slid down the wounded shoulder, and felt on the Russian's leg. Bayle cursed.

-Mr Kuryakin ! Show must go on ! Look at me : be ready for the final display ...

He held a little case.

-I'll program that, and, well, I'll leave you. But you'll have a ringside seat...

Illya Kuryakin moaned, and struggled to get up.

-Tststs, Mr Kuryakin. I'll ease you. Indulge me.

He came up to the Russian, and bent over him. The blond man's eyes were silvery white. Piercing. Alive. Lethal. But Bayle didn't realise it before stepping back, staggering, the Russian's knife in his chest. He touched it, looked at his bloody hand with astonishment. And he understood. Illya Kuryakin hissed.

-A rooten game, Bayle. There is no winner...

Bayle raised a shaking hand. He still held the case. Illya Kuryakin knew what he was going to do. And... why not ? What else ?

* * *

-Some wreckage floating, sir. No. No traces of them.

Jules Cutter bit his lips, thoughtfully.

-It might be... good news, Alex.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin and Bayle stared at each other. Time froze.

A shot.

Bayle tottered for awhile, undulated and eventually fell down, heavily.

Hope.

Rescue.

An insane hope...

Illya Kuryakin tried to fight his hazy vision. Vainly. Gentle hands grabbed him, carefully, and helped him to get up. And a voice.

-Don't worry, Mr Kuryakin, you'll be fine. We have to leave this house, just in case. Let me help you. I'll take you in a safe place.

A voice. He knew this voice. Not **_his _**voice.

A compassionate voice. Concerned.

Evan Stellon's voice.


	31. Chapter 31

Natural skills. Years of training and practice. Instinct... Napoleon Solo grabbed the bounded fisherman, lifted him up and threw themselves overboard. And the boat exploded.

* * *

The voice, again. Soothing, but urging. Illya Kuryakin wrenched himself free. Well, he tried to. He looked blearily at the young man. He knew that Stellon was the mole. At least, that he wasn't an ordinary recruit. That he was probably an enemy. But memories were persistent. Whoever Stellon was, the Russian couldn't erase those moments, in the jail.

-Mr Kuryakin... Trust me. Let me help you.

Comforting. Insistent.

Stellon, gently dragged him towards the house, then to his car. He helped him in the passenger seat, and got in the driver's seat.

-Take this, and press it on your shoulder. Please !Trus...

-Trust... you ? You are... kidding !

Although, Illya Kuryakin pressed the handkerchief on his wound. He felt really dazed. Evan Stellon moved off.

The Russian leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes.

-Take me to the harbour.

-I can't do that, Mr Kuryakin.

-You ask me to trust you ! Your friend blasted the boat, and...

-Bayle wasn't my friend, Mr Kuryakin.

-Mikey was there... And Nap... Mr Solo, too.

-I am sorry, Mr Kuryakin.

-Take me to the harbour ! They could have made it.

-I am sorry, Mr Kuryakin. I can't. You need medical care.

Illya Kuryakin sat up. He intended to... He tried, but sank back onto his seat.

* * *

Napoleon Solo heaved up the fisherman onto the quay. He removed Mikey's gag, and untied the bonds. Then, they coughed, spitted, and eventually got their breath back.

-Well done, man.

The fisherman was still panting. Napoleon Solo stood up, looking around. He helped the other man to get up.

-You'll sit here and wait. Our reinforcements will come soon.

Mikey grabbed Solo's arm.

-And where are you going ?

Napoleon Solo pointed his finger up to the house.

-Illya is there, Mikey.

The fisherman frowned. He remembered the man's eyes.

-It was your Bayle, Napoleon. Do you think...?

-Yes, Mikey. So, stay here and...

-You're kidding, boy ! Of course I 'll go with you !

Napoleon Solo stared at him, and gave up. The fisherman was clearly resolute. The two men went on their way.

Napoleon Solo worried. They thought that Bayle wanted to trap them in the house, and that he would blast it, looking at the show from his boat. He understood now that Bayle's plan was far more nasty. He wanted them to witness the destruction of the boat... Then, he would blast the house. Useless. Complicate. Nasty. For his own pleasure. Efficiency wasn't the purposse. Step after step, Napoleon Solo expected the blast.

* * *

The bed wasn't very comfortable. The pillow, too soft. A searing pain flashed through his shoulder, and took his breath away. He opened his eyes, his vision still blurred. It was a bedroom, dimly lit. He was alone. Something had happened. He was wounded. But this... wasn't Mikey's...

Mickey. He remembered.

Mickey and Napoleon.

Stellon.

He struggled to get up. He wore his pants and what looked like a clean shirt. Shoes... He staggered towards the door, barefoot. The place was silent. He pushed the door, carefully, and craned forward. A corridor. Staircase. Daylight... He gripped the banister, and clung to it. It was ... vertiginous. Breathtaking. He went down. Step after step. Still tightly clutching the banister. He realized that he probably wouldn't make it.

-And what the hell do you think you are doing, Mr Kuryakin ? Evan, help him down !

This voice.

Illya Kuryakin blinked. Downstairs, a man stood. A hazy silhouette. But though his vision was still blurred, he could depict him : middle -aged. Plain dark suit. Stellon slid his arm round the Russian's waist.

* * *

Napoleon Solo motioned the fisherman to wait, and hauled himself up the terrace. Mikey hearing a curse followed the Uncle agent. The dark haired man pointed at a body. The fisherman frowned, then relaxed. Bayle. Dead. When he turned to Napoleon Solo, he froze. The man's face was strained. He stared at... The fisherman turned his head, and saw... blood. On the ground. And some drops... which led to the house.

* * *

-Come, Mr Kuryakin... As you are awake, we have to talk. Anyway, it's time.

Illya Kuryakin frowned. Déjà-vu... Time ?

They entered a room poorly furnished. He wrenched himself free from Stellon's grip, and tottered to the wall.

-Would you please sit down, Mr Kuryakin ? You'll be more comfortable. A doctor took care of your shoulder. Luckily, the bullet went through. But you would be more comfortable.

The man was ewtremely polite. Inexplicably courteous.

The Russian shook his head. Instantaneously, the walls began to whirl round.

-Mr Kuryakin ? Please.

Illya Kuryakin gave up and took some faltering steps towards a chair.

-Would you like some tea ? Some coffee ?

-Who are you ? What do you want ?

He didn't recognize his own voice. Hoarse. Tense. The other man rubbed his chin. He looked hesitant.

-We already met, Mr Kuryakin...

-In my cell ? I remember.. your voice. Ev.. Stellon was there, too. You are... Thrush agents, aren't you ?

-Yes, Mr Kuryakin. What do you remember, exactly ?

The pain was dull, but persistent. Illya Kuryakin smiled, faintly, and kept silent. He didn't understand the point, but he wouldn't give him satisfaction. The other man sighed.

-I am not your enemy, Mr Kuryakin. Evan told me that Bayle had ... killed your friends. I am sorry.

The Russian couldn't help sneering. This man had a brass neck. He took a deep breath and hissed, ironically.

-You are sorry ? You are worrying about Napoleon Solo's death ? Stellon, your friend must be out of his mind ...

-Solo's death will please many people. Your death would have pleased them, too.

Illya Kuryakin felt beads of sweat on his forehead.

-You ... you asked Ev... Stellon to take care of me. Why ?

-Yes, I did. Do you remember something else ?

-Why ?

-I came twice, Mr Kuryakin. The first time... you were almost elsewhere. The second time, you looked conscious and I offered you something. Do you remember ?

-You... you...

So... it wasn't a dream...

-You... offered me... a normal life.

-Yes, Mr Kuryakin, I did. You didn't answer. I thought that you didn't hear me. That, perhaps... we had lost you. But your friends succeeded...

The pain was increasing. He replied ironically.

-And... of course..., it pleased you... Simmons's failure... pleased you ?

-No, Mr Kuryakin. Do you remember anything else ?

* * *

Alexander Waverly sighed with relief. His CEA was alive, the innocent, Mikey was alive. Well, Illya Kuryakin was missing... for the moment. However, he had shot Bayle. According to Napoleon Solo, he was probably injured. But as they didn't find his body... Jules Cutter cleared his throat.

-Stellon, Alex. Stellon and... Feather. Bayle has been knifed... and shot. Shot in the back of the head. Illya Kuryakin is a devil with a knife... But I think that someone else shot Bayle. Why ... ?

-But Feather... he wanted... to save Mr Kuryakin's life ! It's inconsistent, Jules. Why would he abduct him, now ?

-Eventually... Thrush is Thrush, Alex. Feather got rid of Bayle... He might have changed his mind about Illya Kuryakin.

Alexander Waverly pouted, doubtful.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin blinked. The pain was overwhelming. Someone handed him a glass and some pills.

He shook his head.

-Pain killers, Mr Kuryakin... Do you remember anything else ?

The Russian gave up and swallowed the pills.

-I ... I don't know your face. I don't know your name. But I know your voice. Who are you ? And... What do you want ?

The man stood up and walked towards the window.

-A beautiful day, Mr Kuryakin.

He came back to his chair.

-You are right, Mr Kuryakin. We met... before the jail. Once time. Years ago. One of your first missions, I think. Mr Solo and you thwarted us in our plans... You had to get back something... and to destroy our laboratory.

The man's voice was soft.

-The house was to be blasted. You had succeeded... Our agents... the surviving ones... had run away. And you... went back, you rushed to the house, because you had heard a child crying. I was racing towards the laboratory, but I'd have been late...

Illya Kuryakin opened his mouth, and whispered a name.

-Yes, Mr Kuryakin. I am Feather. And I remember. A damned Uncle agent risking his life to save a little girl. A Thrush executive's daughter. My daughter, Mr Kuryakin. You carried her out of the house. A few seconds before the blast. You... protected her from the wreckage. You were... injured, and I got her back. And... we escaped. But I made you a promise... Do you remember ?

Illya Kuryakin remembered the child. A seven years old little girl. He remembered her father's face.

He remembered his voice. Not his words.

-No... I think you... thanked me ?

The man chuckled.

-No, Mr Kuryakin. I promised you that ... as you had saved my daughter's life, I would... all other things being equal, protect yours. Then, I had to leave the US. I changed my face. And when I came back, I had to oversee Simmons and his plan. Unfortunately... you were part of it. All other tings being equal, Mr Kuryakin. I asked Evan to take care of you... but he had to play his own part, for his own sake. Then, all hell broke lose... However, Evan was at the Survival School... A perfect mole. But... Bayle went wild.

Feather peeked at his watch.

-Now... now I have paid my debt. I owed you a life. We are all square. We'll leave you here. Waverly and Cutter will take care of you. I just wanted you to know... Oh... about Evan... Evan is my nephew. And... believe it... or not. I am really sorry about Mr Solo. It was.. unfair. Bayle... Bayle paid off the balance.

The man's voice was harsher.

-From now, Mr Kuryakin... get out of my way.

* * *

-Feather ?

-Yes, Mr Solo. Feather. He ... apparently, he considered that he had a debt... He has just called us. Mr Kuryakin is injured, but alive. I'll give you the address.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin was dumbfounded. Abashed. The jigsaw was reconstructed. Finally... Except for... two pieces. Mikey...

Napoleon. Expendable. Back to "normal life" ? No... Alexander Waverly would sympathize, and then assign to him a new partner. The Russian smiled bitterly. Worse. He was Section 2, number 2... Logically... the Old Man would designate him as the new CEA.

No way.

He wouldn't wait for them. All he had to do was to get up, to leave this place, and to disappear. That, he could do. Could he ?

Injured. Weakened by the loss of blood. And the painkiller.

Barefoot. A challenge...

All he had to do was to get up... but it was too late. Voices, footsteps. Nevertheless, he struggled to stand up, and staggered towards the window.

-He is here ! Illya, what the hell are you doing ?


	32. Chapter 32

Back to normal life... Not really.

Jules Cutter was back to the Survival School.

Mikey was back to Mousehole.

April dancer and Mark Slate were on an assignment... Somewhere.

The Commissioner Vernon had asked, pouted, muttered and eventually given up.

Alexander Waverly was... Alexander Waverly.

The Section 2, number 1 the CEA, Napoleon Solo was attending a congress in Toronto.

The Section 2, number 2, Napoleon Solo's partner was... on leave.

Officially ?

Tongues started wagging.

Rumours had it that the Russian agent had resigned... would resign...

No one would ask the Old Man.  
No one would ask the CEA.

Should that arise... Who would become Solo's partner ?

It was anyone's bet.

Should that arise, of course. Nevertheless, Illya Kuryakin was still missing.

* * *

Napoleon Solo sighed. A boring congress... He lectured himself for his bad faith. The congress wasn't that boring. He was expected to succeed Alexander Waverly... The Old Man wanted him to get used to the various sides of the job. But Napoleon Solo stood his ground : he was a field agent. He... liked that. He wouldn't give up now. There was no question of that.

When he had found his partner, he had seen his surprise, his relied. His delight. And then, his face had turned almost expressionless. Back to the HQ, Illya Kuryakin had been taken to the Medicals. Unusualy ... docile.

-He looks to be in a daze, doctor.

-Well... he isn't at death's door, Mr Solo, but he'll need rest, obviously. You have to be aware that he might have difficulty pulling himself together... for awhile.

Encouraging.

Then, Illya had left the HQ.

-Where is he, sir ?

-Mr Kuryakin is on leave and...

-Yes, sir, but where is he ? He is my partner, and...

-Did he tell you about it ?

-No, but...

-So, let's consider that it's none of your business.

His partner. Napoleon Solo remembered all what happened ... One year ago, he had a partner, efficient, stubborn, prickly.. brave, faithful, trustworthy. A partner, and a friend. The closest friend.

And all hell broke loose. The jail... Simmons. And Bayle... Of course, they had defeated the enemies. Napoleon Solo had really believed that they would be able to work together again. As a team. Would it be ?

* * *

Illya Kuryakin sat down on the wooden floor. Mikey's house, his terrace were peaceful. An extraordinary landscape. Some things didn't change. Blue, green, purple. White. All clean, pure. A place where he could live. A normal life. But that... he couldn't do. He wouldn't.

Illya Kuryakin couldn't help smiling, bitterly. Months ago, he was there. Desperate. Lost. Quite sure that he would never come back to Uncle. Achab. Mikey had pestered him.

A sweet, delicious smell... So familiar. He raised his head, and a mug appeared. Mikey sat down beside him.

-So, Illya ? How are you doing?

The youg Russian quivered. He knew this tone.

-Oh, no, Mikey, please, no Achab lecture this morning.

The fisherman frowned wittingly.

-What do you think, boy ? Perhaps you need one...

Mikey paused and sipped his coffee.

-Who preached at me about a normal life, as a teacher or a scientist, Mikey ?

The fisherman rolled his eyes.

-You look sometimes very young, my friend. Very vulnerable. You are young, and you have your own weaknesses. You would be a great scientist. And probably a great teacher... But ... you belong... your job. You told me about a jigsaw, do you remember ? A jigsaw where there was no place for you ? That was a mistake. You are part of the jigsaw. The Uncle jigsaw. My home is your home, boy... but your own home... isn't there. And you know that.

Illya Kuryakin didn't answer. What could he say ? He could come back to Uncle. He would come back. His partner... his friend needed somebody to watch his back. The Russian had to live with that fear. The fear that he could fail. The fear that Napoleon could die. Feather had saved his life. One life for one life. A kind of parenthesis. Hindsight...

One life for one life ? A honest deal.

Napoleon had saved him. And he had saved Napoleon.

They never kept the books of it...

A debt of honour.

A debt of friendship. More.

Mikey tapped him on the shoulder, and showed him the living room.

-Mr Waverly is calling...

-Mr Kuryakin ? Well... Mr Solo is in Toronto. He attends a congress, and we have been told that Thrush might make trouble... I know that you are still on leave... However...

Sneaky old fox...

* * *

Napoleon Solo heard the familiar noise and threw himself down, sheltering behind a car.. Waverly and his « perfectly calm » congress ! In the other hand, it wasn't boring, any more... The dark haired agent got out his gun. First, he had to spot his opponents. He crept towards the sidewalk, taking advantage of the darkness.

-Could do with some help, my friend ?

Napoleon Solo chuckled.

-Just on time, as usual, tovarish...


End file.
